


serendipitous

by Ezfa



Category: Hellsing, Hellsing Ultimate
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-10-19 20:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17608745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezfa/pseuds/Ezfa
Summary: For the most part, their encounters were by chance...( A collection of ficlets, drabbles, one-shots and mini-fics surrounding the 30 day fic prompt challenge for the obscure Hellsing ship, Seras/Walter | Requests open!! )





	1. time (1)

**Author's Note:**

> Huzzah! This is mostly for plot bunnies I have or ideas that I don't want/can't figure out how to make into a full fledged story, so the chapters are short, spontaneous, random, or they can be a little longer, but it all depends on my mood. I'm using a random 30 day prompt guide, but I do take requests so just comment those! :) 
> 
> Please note that this these aren't commitments like my regular fics; the updates come when they come.

**summary:** _Walter doesn’t know how to act his age anymore. —_ _#_ _slight_ _Seras/Walter #_ _Young!Walter_ _#AU_

 _( in which Walter C. Dornez_ _ha_ _s regressed into a… fourteen year old, much_ _to_ _Alucard’s amusement and Seras’s_ _joy._ _)_

* * *

  **serendipitous  
** _**[ 30 day prompt challenge ]  
** _ _**time (I)** _

**THE HELLSING MANOR** woke up to a very shrill scream on an otherwise uneventful and quiet Sunday morning. It wakes the entirety of the house.

There’s silence in Sir Integra’s office not long after, at the sight of what caused the rude awakening. As always, the lady of the house calmly lights a cigar, but her eyes say otherwise. _What the bloody hell is going on?_ She voices this, low and bristling, to the lively pair of eyes across. The two vampires flanking either side are uncharacteristically quiet; one is smiling, the other is gushing. “Well?”

There’s a lively boy sitting across the centre of the office, across from her. His eyebrows twitch, lively, confused and _annoyed,_ so his arms cross. Thankfully, his clothes shrank with him and even _more thankfully,_ he had slept in his very work attire, having been exhausted from the day before. His bones were worn with age, and his muscles were sore just from doing the simplest of tasks; it was hard to even change sometimes. Evidently, that isn’t exactly a problem anymore though, is it? “How the _hell_ should I know?!” His face is growing a shade of red and Seras thinks it’s the most adorable thing she’s ever laid eyes on.

Sir Integra isn’t so easily put off, and so she takes a drag. “Watch it, Walter; I… understand your frustrations, but you are still to address me with respect.” This just elicits a growl. She ignores this. Seras steps just a little bit closer to the boy, hand covering her mouth in awe.

“Well, _excuse me,_ Master Integra, if I’m _just_ a bit irritated because I’ve been turned to _a child!”_ The anger in his eyes are livid, a bright stark blue. But his… _voice_ , his… _smallness,_ and his messy hair; it’s too much. And in an uncharacteristically display for which the organization has not seen, Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, _snorts._ The cigar is dropped, her shoulders suddenly shake with mirth, and her hand covers her mouth to mask the quiet breath of laughter. Walter looks _mortified_. Even Alucard seems surprised. “ _Master Integra! How… how_ ** _dare_** _you—”_ little Walter sputters, voice cracking and high pitched, “Y-you… this is _not_ funny! I… I _raised_ you!”

This makes her laugh just a little more, but she collects herself quickly. Her smirk is ever present though. “Indeed. That’s precisely why it’s funny.”

“My, I haven’t seen _you_ in over sixty years, Little Walter,” Alucard speaks; though he is surprised, he’s hardly in shock at this new development. “What was it they used to call you?”

Little Walter narrows his eyes, “Bite your tongue Alucard, or I _will_ rip it _right_ out of your—”

“Ah, I believe it was… _Jolly—”_

“ _Be_ ** _quiet!_** Once; I was called that _one bloody time—”_

Seras just couldn’t contain it anymore, and before the boy, _Walter,_ could even finish that sentence, she near suffocates him in an embrace, crushing him to her chest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I just… _you are so adorable!_ You look like one of those lead singers on those bloody American Boy Bands! God, you’re just like the little brother I could never have but always wanted! I could just _eat_ you right up!”

The room goes silent, but Walter’s muffled protests are the only thing that penetrate the bloody silence. “ _Miss Victoria! Let me go this instant! I am still the butler and you_ _ **will**_ _treat me with respect! Seras!? Seras Victoria!?? Integra, do something!”_ he can’t even talk _properly_ because of his predicament, and so his words come out highly garbled and muffled. Alucard looks like he’s having the time of his life, and Integra merely takes another drag of her cigar, smirk never leaving her face.

Seras pulls apart just barely with enough time to let him breathe, and then in the next second grasps his cheeks, squishing them with either hands. “Not _one_ single wrinkle; you’re face is too bloody adorable! And your _eyes_! They’re simply _gorgeous!”_ she doesn’t pay mind to his whimpering, or his attempts to pull himself away, “Did you always have that one, droopy lid? I can’t even tell! And your hair was so short!”

He grabs her wrists firmly, “Miss Victoria, _that is enough!”_ Despite himself, he can’t help the reddening from taking deep breaths and just the effort alone to keep up with all her movement. His words do not come out threatening or even remotely scolding, they come out like that of a whiny child. “I _mean_ it! This doesn’t _change_ anything; I’m still a respected member of Hellsing! Master Integra, _please_ , control her!”

But before Integra could open her mouth, Seras exclaims enthusiastically, “Actually, Miss Integra; in the meantime of figuring all this out, I actually wouldn’t mind babysitting Walter.”  
  
“ _Excuse me!?_ I am a seventy-five year old man; I _hardly_ need a babysitter! _”_

Nobody seems to really acknowledge his presence, because Integra doesn’t even consider his words. “Actually, Seras, _that’s_ not a bad idea in the slightest. I’m not exactly keen on having my… _butler_ running around outside the manor without supervision—” _‘I’m_ _ **seventy-five!**_ _’_ “—despite his very competent combat skills.” She seems to want to say more, but her thoughts are already turning gears on how and _why_ her butler seemed to have magically regressed into a child. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to be taken care of by Alucard, Walter?”

A shiver of disgust makes him hiss, almost like a feral animal. “Integra, you _can’t_ be serious! This is utterly _ridiculous!_ How can I—”

“In the meantime, you could go through the archives in the libraries; possibly find something similar this mess, while Alucard and I will look upon our other resources. As amusing as this is, having you like this would be a liability.”

Walter rolls his shoulders back, as if trying to regain _some_ of his lost dignity. “ _Indeed,”_

“Quite. Now,” she waves him away, “Run along, young one. Seras will be taking care of you.” Oh, she is getting back at him for all the times he’d scold her as a child. “If you don’t behave, I’m afraid I will have to summon Alucard to your tail; we don’t want that, do we?”

“Oh, please,” Alucard says, and he crouches down at eye level to the boy, “ _do_ misbehave little Walter; I look forward to it.” As if that isn’t degrading enough, he actually _ruffles_ his hair.

Walter slaps his hand away, growling at this treatment. Seras hauls him by the waist with a strong and steady arm, “Come along now, if you behave, I’ll even let you watch the telly and eat some junk. This is going to be _super_ fun! And don't you _dare_ think about lighting a cigar, mister!” He hates them all. They're  _all_ in on it. The bloody bastards.

_Kill me. Just killme where I stand._


	2. alarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry fam; I am re-purposing some of the fics I already have up. This one though actually served well as a oneshot, I think.

**summary:** _Fear chases them and panic drives them._   _— #Seras/Walter #Dark!Walter_

* * *

 **serendipitous  
** _**[ 30 day prompt challenge ]  
** _ _**alarm** _

**THE RED THAT** stained the moon did not wash away for a full three days, staining the night a vivid crimson that only served to brighten the blood spattered throughout the streets of London; each night after was even more red than the last. A well Hell on Earth; it is near impossible to distinguish what has happened and what's happening.

It is becoming dusk.

The shadow tendril that replaces her arm refuses to manifest, a well remainder that such an act requires a constant mindset; something she's been lacking since the attacks,  _since everything that's happened_. So instead, she holds the empty space of where her arm used to be, thinking back on the failed attempts to get it back. It resulted in nothing more than a pitiful spark, a fire that died along with, apparently, her conviction. Pip had all but, symbolically, given her the cold shoulder; wouldn't answer her panicked cries for help or her begging. Whether that was because of her own subconscious lacking the proper strength to even summon him properly, or very well because his soul is still is all his, she was left on her own. Without any master of which to speak; the hurt from her direct actions make her chest tighten in unbearable anguish. She would spill tears if she had blood left to do so. Darkness and blurriness is a creeping mistress; stalking the edges of her vampiric vision. Her head has been spinning from despair and exhaustion.

Her body weight is leaned against the edges of the alleyways nearing what had once been a string full of inns and motels, dragging it pathetically like dead weight; arguably, that's what she is.

Perhaps she would have laughed at her own joke, if she was in the spirits for it. "M-Master..." she doesn't know if she's referring to her senior of kin, or the one who commanded him; the ghost of tears sting the edges of her eyes, "I… I  _can't—" I_ _can't do this. I don't think I ever could._ The battle against Zorin— Seras shudders, hunching over slight in a phantom's attempt to puke. Her thoughts flow like water; from one catastrophe to the next.

_Sir Integra… I **failed** you._

That she had, and dearly, and at the price of Sir Integra's shot heart. The dust from the concrete alley walls dirtied her hands; she's walked since escaping, a pathetic escape to survive what's left of her equally pathetic life. She almost claws her own scalp in madness; her master…  _both_ of them, were gone. She's alone, no different than the fate she was left when she was human; she was always alone. The point beyond the horizon flickers to her eyes; crimson enhanced by moonlight. Her fingers twitch and she almost gives in to her quacking knees. She continues to walk, for it's all she can do.

And as Seras continues walking, prowling through the  _Armageddon_  aftermath that had once been London's paradise like the sole survivor of such a massacre, she wonders what happens now. She's been hoping for a miracle; for Alucard to come put of the shadows and laugh at her struggle, even something cruel like that would have been a miracle, a mercy.

_He would be so disappointed in me… no, he would be **furious** with me; I let Sir Integra… oh god, I  **let** her d—di…_

She can't even think of the word.

But she has no time to contemplate that thought anymore, for something halts her in her steps; too caught up in the madness, her turn is belated by trepidation welling in her core. These are her instincts kicking in, but  _why are—?_ She barely manages to jump out of the way, clutching her non-existent arm more out of habit than urgency. Her body is all but begging her to  _run_ , but she's beginning to root herself to the spot from utter shock and curiosity. Attempting to spike her shadowy tendril, Seras tries to stand and fight.

It's a whole squad; fucking nine of the bastards. Had this been only a few days ago, this would be cakewalk. If only she'd been feeding these past few days; if only she didn't let the disraught from her mistakes physically weigh on her; if only  _someone_ offered words of encouragement, or a shove.  _Something._ ** _Anything!_** Right now, it's carnage.  _How?! How could there have been remaining Ghouls?_ Forcing to drop pretenses at the sight of the  _Nazi_ symbols wrapped in their arms, she tries to stand her ground, even as her arm fails to take shape. She's grossly outnumbered, and they just keep walking to her like she's fresh meat.  _Who are they reporting to?_

 _Idiot,_ she chastises herself _; Ghouls don't_ _think_ _,_ _they just_ _eat_ _._

These aren't just former Nazis; they used to be regular citizens. It takes the former cadet a full two seconds to make up her mind in absolute. Each second before then, they walked and groaned her way, closer and closer. She runs. She runs, and she doesn't look back, and  _prays_ that there aren't any more.

It's a hope that is immediately shattered.

She only gets so far, despite her physical capabilities; she's not human, but then again, they're not either, not anymore and not by a long shot. She only gets further by a block, that is, until the sight seven more meet up her ahead. Her knees buckle beneath her; she doesn't have the stamina to run much more, and she has even less to actually retaliate with violence. Her bloody arm won't even cooperate.

These ones seem slower, though; more mindless, if such a thing is possible. More tormented than ever, and though Seras feels a pang of sympathy, she's becoming frustrated… and sick. And as if any of that isn't enough, she's starting to see the world around her through blurred vision.  _V_ _ertigo._ A thought strikes her, and it makes her soul near bleed through her physical body:  _I'm going to die._

But unlike the first time she came to such a realization, when she was fearing for her life against Alexander Anderson, this time it's filtered with despair, stinging at her failures to uphold her duties, and anger at her cowardice. Even now, can't she afford to at least leave with semblance of dignity? _How can I…? When my motivation, my_ ** _reason_** _is… is—_ She almost expects — _she begs,_ for Pip to strike through the thought with a chastising tone, not unlike when she was facing The Captain. When no such thing happens, Seras strikes the ground beneath her with a closed fist in frustration; it makes a crack, but it doesn't deter her enemies.

_I'm going to **die** and I can't even— I can't even defend myself… not even marginally._

She struggles and wobbles to her knees, the cement cutting wounds on her bare flesh.

_I'm going to die._

Each repeating thought begins to fade further and further away.

_I'm going to die._

She's starting to go numb from the head, the center of her face, her chest and finally, the rest of her body. Her vision is turning dark at the edges. Her nose picks up a scent; like fine granite and aged copper, a strange combination that wafts her nostrils and land on her palate like dust particles. Faint, but there. Real. Registering footsteps, she tries to raise her head to see; light of blue flash-like silver on the edge of her vision, but Seras is already in too deep to take in any more.

And then, black.

Nothing.

 _I_ _'m… going to…_   _die..._

And she believes it too; even when her eyes peel open against her mental convictions. Her voice is so utterly unrecognizable to her own hearing that she doesn't initially believe such pitiful sounds come out of her. But even now, Seras can't actually digest the fact that she's anything else other than  _alive._ More than that, she's awake.

 _...she's awake!?_ The sputters come before she physically gets up; it's a sense of deja-vu, familiarity. This isn't the first time she's been spared. In realization of this new development, she clutches her fists in anticipation and turns to her right, as much as she can, and hopes to spot Alucard. Logically, she knows that's stretching it; but she's  _alive,_ she's…  _she's_ — Nothing to her right; she expected as much. Seras deflates, and a second goes by before she truly realizes her situation.

A stark chill brushes over, and she wonders, exactly, how  _weak_ she really is because—

— _how?_ How could she let herself— Alucard would have her head for such incompetence if he were present.

The aged copper, fine granite, and new addition of cigarettes overtake the scent in the air.

— _this? Really?_

The next movements are far too great in speed for the naked human eye to process; Seras had panicked, and thanks to such and her adrenaline peaked high, but more so for her base vampiric instincts, she jumped out of the bed, bent on an immediate simultaneous offense and defense, fangs out and ready to strike her attacker and—

— _except…_

...her arm hadn't manifested neither quickly nor completely; she had completely  _forgotten._

Now caught in the air like a trapped canary, she hangs on wires.

 _Wires… He **still** has the bloody wires?! _But more importantly, and it rings true to her ears,  _How did he… How is he even still al—_

Even her mouth is caught in the middle of a warrior's cry, ready to bite on her attacker, the blasted things tied to either of her fangs like an animal, holding her steady; she feels stupid, caught like this and, she realizes, how physically exhausted she is; how  _weak_ she really is. The threads around her are pressing sharply into her weakened skin, and they tremble as her own body does. Foggy steel meets bloody crimson. Nearly nose to nose, fingers to his face,  _claw_ _touching the bloody monocle—!_

He's got her steady, and for everything he's worth, he doesn't even  _flinch_.

" _Walter,_ " she hisses coldly, an odd sensation taking over her, right then. A mixture of sweat  _—the blood_ oozing from these new cuts,  _from her eyes_ but she doesn't even acknowledge the fact, repressed anger and guilt, stinging from the wires themselves and—

— _fear._

Taking a better look at him up close, he doesn't seem better off for wear as, she would imagine, she does; a mere three days is nothing to process the fact of his betrayal.  _Nothing;_ it doesn't matter  _what_ the sentiment she'd been feeling, as foolish or genuine as it was. He'd  _disrespected_ her masters, both of them, and turned his back on the very organization that he'd worked for  _whatever_ long that was. Now with both— with  _Hellsing_ and Millenium gone up to ashes, Seras feels nothing but  _resentment,_ and an urge to maim, though, that could be the hunger talking to as well.  _B_ _ut,_ she thinks,  _he isn't impeccable;_ he's not. He's in the same youthful age she saw him last, when he'd stepped on Anderson's remaining ashes; he looks in a better state than she is, as reluctant she is to admit, but honestly? It isn't that much better off; blood  _everywhere,_ on every inch of that stupid  _'dark'_ pinstriped suit of his, hair in utter disarray and out of it's hold, dirt and scratches covering most of the porcelain skin. The only composed things on his person are his eyes, if it weren't for them, he'd look like an absolute madman.

For some inexplicable, absurd reason, that infuriates her; more than it probably has any right to. Even Seras is surprised at the sheer, raw emotion that pours from her. He's  _gauging_ her reaction, and yet, he doesn't back down either; he's facing her head on  _literally,_ and she's reluctant to admit it, but that's… very  _him,_ very Walter-like.  _No,_ she thinks vehemently,  _it_ _was_ _._ She refuses to hold  _this_ Walter and  _her_ Walter to the same level; he's unworthy of such a privilege.

_He's not Hellsing's Walter; he's not **my** Walter!_

She struggles against the wires, despite the pain; even if she knows she physically take him, not as she currently is, she will not back down to such a nasty, evil and vile person. Not again. No after what she's been through. And as Walter stares at her in something akin to exasperation, she wonders;  _D_ _id I even know him_ _at a_ _ll_ _?_

And as his brow furrows only slightly, both hands at either side of him as he holds his position steady, she thinks,  _No,_ _I guess no_ _t at all..._ "I save you, and this is how I am repaid, Seras Victoria?" His voice,  _his voice alone,_ rings unfamiliar in her ears, and  _yet—_ she cannot deny the sound of the prelude to a much older, wiser Walter; it's definitely him alright.  _So, this is what he sounded at this age, eh?_ He had spoken in a near hiss, with such acid and accusation.  _Cry me a bloody river._ _The audacity, I swear—_

She doesn't acknowledge his words, merely glares for holding her in such a humiliating position; he still doesn't take his eyes off of her, like she's about to pounce on any given moment. Taking a second look, she notices that he isn't exactly lax; like her, he is also ready for defense and offense. He's holding her steady, but not without zero effort, either. "Release me this bloody instant!"

"Do you think me stupid?"

"For letting me go? No; I  _had_ that opinion already," the corners of her lips quirk ever so slightly. "Don't you worry about that."

He ignores her obvious jab, "The moment I let you go, you'll no doubt try and tear me to shreds; and from what I can see," he maneuvers the wires so that she is brought closer to his eye level; a slightly painful, and uncomfortable sensation for her, "You've accepted what you are,"

 _Pip,_ she automatically thinks, and she begins to struggle again. "Let me  _go_."

"Not a bloody chance."

"Then congratulations you absolute  _twit_ ; why the bloody hell did you even…  _save_ me in the first place? I doubt you could retain this hold for that long. You may be newly rejuvenated Walter, but I know my master did a number on you..." His fingers twitch, and she only realizes this because it's the one that manipulates the wire around her  _neck._  A brow seems to protrude from the neck; he's irritated, and, if this had been any other circumstance, Seras would have laughed. But as it stands, she's just itching to bite his stupid face off.  _Go on, move me closer you son of a—_ "Hit a nerve much?"

"You've become  _talkative_ Seras; last I remember, you weren't this enthusiastic with making small talk to those who held your life by a thread," she gets the impression he thinks that pun is funny.

"And last  _I_ remember, you betrayed Hellsing, Sir Integra and a fellow comrade!"

He raises a brow at her, "Fellow comrade? Is  _that_ the relationship you think Alucard and I had?"

She grits her teeth, trying not to let the anger take too strong of a toll on her already deteriorating body, "I'd  _thought_ you two were  _friends_ , given what you've recounted to me," just the memory of an aged Walter, sharing stories with her about his past, is close to home. Merely speaking on such experiences leave a bad taste to her mouth; who knows, at this point she's convinced that everything he did was, in some way, a lie. She doesn't know what to believe in anymore. "But clearly that isn't the case, if your bloody expression is any indication of the fact."

"Indeed," he drawls, "Having that said, what exactly do you propose to me, considering your circumstances?"

"I—  _you_ —  _Excuse me?_ I would expect that to be  _your_ line!" She begins struggling again, albeit more frustrated than ever, uncaring for the pain the threads inflict on her. "I'll tell you my proposition,  _you bloody let me go right now and I'll rip that stupid hair of your right out of your damn skull!"_

Walter sucks his teeth, slight sudden blood oozing out of the corner of his mouth and eyes narrowing with such vehemence that— even for a second— Seras is brought back to the time Alucard scolded her for complaining about the SWAT's team slaughter. Against her better judgment, she gulps. He's exasperated and, only now realizing this, tired. Not unlike her in the least.  _He must have gone through hell since his battle with the Master; whatever they did to him… whatever is keeping him in this form… it's… it looks painful._ "Foolish girl; I have your head literally by a thread. Do you see," he moves right little finger just barely so, and that movement is enough dig through the tough confines of her uniform; more specifically, over her heart, "— _this?"_ She gasps at the agonizing pain, "Do you  _understand?_ You are in  _no_ position to be spewing threats over my head as if you can comply to them in the first place! I'm offering you a white flag, Victoria; I don't wish to actively harm you. I  _saved_ you, remember? What point is there for me to  _waste_ my energy only to kill you afterwards? And even  _after_ you regained consciousness, mind you..."

Seras tries to speak above the pain with little result; the bastard doesn't loosen  _that_ particular thread. "Knowing you as you stand now,  _Dornez_ , you may as well have just done it for the mere  _fun_  of it. I don't  _know._ Maybe you're  _into_ this kind of thing, eh?" Her heart, though dead and for all intents and purposes for the world to know along with all other internal organs, are dead and still,  _thuds_ with a phantom-pulse. It's more so pronounced with the tight and sharp wire.  _Damnit; he could very well— This isn't… any… good…_  And as she looks to him, she's surprised to see such a soft expression; it almost makes her gasp.

Something in him, is utterly wretched at her spoken words. It only lasts for a brief second, before she hears his voice faintly carrying over like a breeze. "Have I truly… fallen so low in your eyes, Seras?"

Against her own volition, she gulps and… considers him. Yet, she has no immediate answer. And abruptly as he had her in his web, he drops her rather unceremoniously. Threads all but gone. She gasps in simultaneous relief and pain; almost by instinct, she backs away, huddling in case he's about to hit her, or something. Her breathing is agonizingly labored, but apparent; her eyes focus on his.

Walter doesn't move, only looking at her as if she's slapped him. A peculiar type of acceptance.

"What… what do you—"

"Proving to you that I'm not a sadistic wretch. I may enjoy bloodlust and the heat of battle; but I'm not a bastard. You fail to understand… my ire wasn't and never will be, with you, Integra or even Hellsing…. It never was."

 _Alucard,_ she thinks,  _it's always been with Master…_ _but s_ _till…_ _what does that have to do with—_  Her fists clench and her jaw sets. The wooden floors creak around them, and it's the first time she realizes that they are on the second floor of a seemingly abandoned motel; no doubt the establishment has been absolutely decimated on the rampant massacre. "That still doesn't make what you did justified in any way—"

He draws in a sharp breath and surprises her yet again with his answer; "I know..." he runs a hand through his hair in exhaustion; a very… surprisingly human gesture for him to do, and Seras can't help but feel gnawing of sincere sympathy growing in her chest. "But as I've said… Seras; my only goal was to defeat Alucard. I wanted him to fall by  _my_ hand; no one else's..."

She gulps and lowers her gaze, lip quivering. "Did you… did you get the satisfaction you were craving? Was it… was it worth it?"

And, as a response, he bears a smile so genuine… so…  _sad_ and child-like. So much like the Nazi soldiers who went on the ship to come to an end. It sends a stark chill up her spine, and without even knowing, she tenses, anticipating his words.

"… Not in the slightest."

It's those words alone, among the argument and the anger and the betrayal, that Seras feels a crimson strand meet it's end at the bottom of her cheek. Not only from one eye, but from both.  _Oh, Walter…_

And for the second time in her life, Seras Victoria mourns someone who doesn't deserve her tears.


	3. companion

**Summary:** _..._ _a_ _nd so_ _, he does._   _— #Seras/Walter #_ _Dark!_ _Walter #_ _WhatIf!_ _AU_

* * *

**serendipitous**  
_**[ 30 day prompt challenge ]  
** _ _**companion** _

**HIS SOULS IS** a bobbing apple, barely managing at the edge of the water and incessant in its' movements. He takes it as a confirmation to his own demise; yet the face of his own proverbial death, at the pinnacle of it all, there's a harsh pull that eradicates any hesitation of where he's headed. For a small fleeting moment, he knows it's not over; his life was never that easy.

_We had a good run… Sir Integra._

Yet, he dares to hope, anyway.

What makes him come to is the burning heaviness atop the base of his chest; he heaves nothing but the taste of blood, gunpowder and apparently, death. His coughs —no,  _hacks,_ don't wane; he wonders if he's about to cough out a lung. What a troublesome matter. Firmly chained wrists yank harshly against the binds; though his vision is blurry, his strength is somewhat formidable, but it isn't enough. It's nowhere near enough. He eventually stops fighting, and his mouth hangs open with all the bile and sinful blood of a damned soul. The vampiric effects of his transformation take activation, and his vision roams wildly but clearly.

He knows this place. How can he not?

Hellsing's personal subbasement. His throat fills with bubbling crimson bile, and vitriol as acidic as any poison. "What in the bloody—" he breathes out harshly; a half thought, an incomplete rationale.

"You're awake."

Without prevarication, he wonders if this is his personalized Hell. He knows that voice; he knows it all too bloody well.

His eyes move without his consent; his mind is a whirlwind of emotions and questions. They all release from his inner most depths, the parts of him that no one else gets to see, not even himself; he's purging everything from his mind, for all he's worth. It all releases in the form of a haggard sigh, if at that. He tries to give himself to the count of three to  _wake up_ and  _pray_ that this…  _this…_  right now, is nothing more than a near-death hallucination. Surely that's what this is; a last attempt from his mind to remind him of his failures.

He's been the damn butler of this household for decades, yet he refuses this arising possibility.

Surely he isn't chained in the blasted dungeon that belongs to Alucard, heaving bile and blood. Surely he isn't facing at none other than Seras Victoria herself. Surely he isn't  _alive._  No… not; it's very clear. He died; with regret, surely and unwavering, but accepting. He  _died._ He can almost taste the falling remnants of his cigar crumbling away from his mouth. It was  _just_ there no less than a second ago.

This  _has_ to be a hallucination.

He becomes more cross as the seconds pass; the more time passes, the more his vision clears up, and the more his vision clears up, the more he's becoming astutely aware of his surroundings.

The more he's able to confirm for himself that  _this,_ indeed,  _isn't_ a hallucination.

Walter C. Dornez, former butler to the Hellsing family, now a farce of a vampire and failure of his own title,  _Angel of Death,_ is quite alive.

He remembers now, he's no ordinary mortal man; not anymore, and so his recovery, though in disarray and erratic, is nearly instantaneous.  _But that damn Doctor s-said…_  He doesn't even speak, and yet he coughs out more blood as though he did, the words dying on his throat even before they have a chance to surface on his tongue.

"You've overexerted yourself, Walter. You need to calm down." For as caring as the words are, they ring dull in his ears and bounce off the walls of his mind like a worn out mantra. If he had the energy, he'd be  _very_ pissed with that condescending tone of hers.

He knows, though; knows that it's not condescension at all on Seras' part, but uncertainty and betrayal; the wounds of someone that was stabbed in the back by a dear friend.

The mere thought makes him even more angry at himself but he's  _been_ through this song and dance right at the pinnacle of his death, he  _accepted_ his fate,  _acknowledged_ his fault; the moment has been taken from him, and that is unacceptable.

If she's expecting an apology, she's sorely mistaken.

Seras pins him with a look; not quite here nor there. Not angry, not upset, not  _sad;_ uncertain…  _disappointment._

_Thank you, for everything… you've done for me. Take care._

His fingers twitch. Walter is unaware of the expression he delivers; whatever it is, she seems to look right through it. He tries to say words, only to find that his throat is bone-dry; the effort to speak alone a strenuous feat.

"Hush now, Walter," her eyebrow twitches, just gently so, as if his name burns her vocal chords, "You're in no condition to speak."

His immediate response is to take that as an offense, but when a damp cloth is pressed against his mouth and temples, he realizes it's instruction. He's hurt, badly; that is  _now_  obvious. " _W—wh..."_ Where? Why? What? He doesn't even know what he wants to say or what he even wants to ask first.

Seras doesn't respond, only focusing on cleaning the blood away from his face with an expressionless mask that makes him rather unsettled and, frankly, annoyed.

Not long after, she holds a medical pouch filled with blood and it makes his palate spark lightly with necessity, with craving.

"Yeah… figured you might need this, after the hell you've been through," she opens it for him and, thankfully, does not make haste. Walter has never been more grateful to the girl than in this very moment. He's greedy, and the more blood he takes in, as vile as it tastes, makes him come to even more and more. She wipes his mouth with the cloth, the thing now a crimson mess.

The fact that she's coddling him like this is unsettling; this reality he's stepped forward to is utterly unsettling.

They sit in an awkward and uncomfortable silence and then he realizes—  _she's avoiding my gaze._

Like he's a pitiful sight.

Walter grinds his teeth;  _so why bother having me here?_

As if reading his mind, and perhaps she has for all he knows, she snaps her eyes to him, lips thinned in uncertainty, not unlike the face she made when she thanked him for having taken care of her in the past.

"You're here, Wal—… mm,  _safe._ You're safe… and you're indeed alive."

He only stares.

Seras taps her fingers against her thigh. "I'm guessing you… want to… know… things."

"That's one way to put it," at his words,  _at his voice,_ both are taken by surprise; Seras clearly hadn't expected him to speak, or at least, not so soon, least of all to her. Walter hadn't expected for his vocal chords to be  _able_ to work in the first place, but what surprises him both is his voice.  _W-wait a minute—!_

Responsively, he moves almost frantically, having forgotten he's bound by chains. When that doesn't come to fruition, he jerks his head around;  _Mirror… I need a mirror! Or a reflective surface._ Could vampires see themselves in reflective surfaces? For all his years fighting such creatures, he can't conjure up his vast knowledge worth a damn.

"Easy there! I told you that you're—" Seras's first mistake was uttering such patronizing words, and her second one was putting her hands in front as if though he were a caged, rabid, animal.

One moment, he's near-complacent against the chains; the very next, using speed he has no right to use in such a physically weakened state, he's  _so close_ to her face with a lively snarl. As far as the binds let him, anyway.

" _Do **NOT—!** " _in retrospect, he'd wanted to say  _enough_  instead, but it seems as of late, his words and mind betray him in retaliation for his own sins. They stay like this, a frame frozen in time, a photograph in real time; gray eyes pierce through crimson eyes with as much as utter disdain and vitriol he'd delivered to Alucard during their battle. He pants, marveled at the energy it took to even move like this, has already drained him.  _A farce._

He almost expects her to be  _that_ Seras; to respond in her very  _human_ way. To cry, to plead, to struggle.

But not with soulless compliance.

Her gaze wavers down, as if looking at something past the point of his chin. "I know," she says simply. She repeats it again, as if trying to convince  _herself._ "I… I'm… sorry," what for, Walter doesn't know.

That's surely his line.

Her apology placates him, if only for a moment, and he leans back against the rough walls. Reduced to nothing more but his undershirt and pants, free of chains and hair an unkempt mess, he wonders what happens now, and he wonders, most of all, what's going on.

He would have laughed.

They sit in even more silence; both exhausted, unsure and with a creeping premonition worming through their spines. Until Seras breaks that silence.

"You have questions," his only response to that is a flicker of his eyes. He hears the heaviness of her gulp. "I wish I could answer them, but Sir Integra gave specific orders." That's all she says on  _that_ matter, and he figures that's that. He won't be getting answers. Not fast enough for his liking. So instead, Walter responds with as much of the answers she's provided; with  _nothing._

Seras sees his lack of response, and she accepts it; she knows and she doesn't blame him.

"You're  _that_ age, I can say that; mid-twenties, I assume? Thirties? I'm not sure..." she rubs the back of her head, as if on the spotlight.

He says nothing.

"Ah… and also, well, you're still a vampire," she catches her stupidity with that one, and scratches her cheek as if to evade a scolding, "But of course you knew that; err… mm..."

Still nothing. She sighs in defeat.

"In case you were in any doubt, Sir Integra has no intention of letting you go, Walter; whether you want to or not, you're… you're bound to us, to Hellsing. We're not letting you go so easily, despite the given circumstances and… recent… shortcomings."

He could respond to several of the implications in that statement alone, firstly and rightfully addressing the fact as to how he's even  _alive_ in the first place, but he can't help the ascending laugh that rumbles painfully from his core.

Seras, even being so used to Alucard, can't help but to tighten the grip on her thighs at the mocking, horrendous laugh.

His words slip out like honey and burn like acid. "Do you… does  _she_ think that after all this, that she  _still_ has the  _right_ to take me in by force? That I'll be attending to this blasted family's whimsies and bring tea every morning?" It's funnier, the more he thinks about it; the more he says it out loud. The Angel of Death, newly formed and rejuvenated artificial vampire, bringing tea, attending to the mansion and taking out the trash; what a sight to imagine! His laugh continues.

It continues until it turns into a chuckle. And then that turns into a series of dull scoffs.

And even that, dies off into an angry, shuddering breath.

This is madness.

"Master Integra… doesn't think anything. But..." he glares at her, rather viciously; she continues as if he's an old friend, "…but she wants to sort things out, with time, of course."

"With time," he drawls out. "Is this a joke? This must be… this can't be..."

"I'm… I'm afraid not, Angel of Death..." hearing her say that title leaves his stomach rigid. It's not…  _right._ "I'm afraid, that… you'll be around for a little while longer."

This is the second time in a row Seras has surprised him so; her smile, so genuine and unforced, is sincere for all that it's worth.

He shouldn't feel things like relief or comfort; it's sinful and wrong to even be given this kind of opportunity, this open door, when he's thrown all of his respect, status and duty away for a childish squabble.

The words she's spilled should imply that he's been reduced to a hostage, a prisoner; but her smile says otherwise.

_He's getting a second chance._

Perhaps not immediately, and obviously not within a year or two or even twenty, but Hellsing has outstretched its' hand.

_Should he take it?_

Walter… has no answer.

**( &. )**

She's unsure of him. But the fleeting moments she's uncertain of him don't quite shine through as much as the times she averts her gaze, which is nearly all of it. Sometimes, he feels like she's  _almost_ back to her old ways, back to speaking to him on amiable terms,  _yet,_ when he spares a second of a glance, a lone flicker of his eyes—

— _her_ eyes are downcast. Always. Never looking at him directly; almost as if she were  _afraid_ of him.

Each and every time, Walter convinces himself that he doesn't  _care._ That it's better for her not to hold certain preconceived notions of his person; to not expect the  _old_ Walter to shine through this new, strange one. He tries. But each and every time, he finds himself growing annoyed at her lack of genuine contact. He craves friendly affection; the familiarity and endearment of someone he's held dear. He scoffs inwardly, disgusted with himself.  _I sound like damn pervert._ How much time has passed is unknown to him; if he bothers to ask Seras, she merely shrugs her shoulders and averts her gaze to the side. Each time she does that, he grows more cross.

Their conversation from their first meeting in this dungeon replay in his mind. His fingers twitch, and he nearly scoffs out loud. His threads are nowhere to be found, and of course…

_Silver chains._

They've been burning his wrists; the more he moves them, the more they sting.

"You shouldn't do that; those are silver. Keep moving your hands like that, you're going to get an awful burn, you know," she says only what he just realized.

Steel eyes nearly demolish crimson eyes. He's almost fooled into thinking that she's not affected, but that minuscule shake of her irises are enough confirmation for the opposite.

"Don't bloody patronize your elders."

The unwavering ferocity and daring in her expression stills him. "You forget yourself; you  _lost_ that air of respect the moment you decided to betray Sir Integra and this household." Her brutality doesn't go without recognition, and, whether it's because Walter is indeed, very much true to his real age, or because of the blasted silver and his physical state, or even because he's slowly succumbing to insanity, he has no immediate relation.  _I guess I never had that respect in the first place, did I?_

He would have smiled at the irony of her words, if only wasn't so cross. Slowly, his brow furrows into dull acceptance. Stubborn, stripped of his dignity and cross, but accepting. If only for a moment. He doesn't recognize  _this_ Seras; she looks to him like steel, unafraid, and most of all,  _confident._

Indeed, perhaps he's not the only one who's gone through a significant metamorphosis.

"Why are you truly here, Seras Victoria? What's the meaning behind all of this?"

His blood boils when she begins to shake her head sadly. The chains rattle, as if agreeing with his sentiment.

"You know I can't—"ah,  _there's_ the Seras he's grown accustomed to;  _perhaps she is not that lost to me as I initially thought,_ "I am forbidden by Sir Integra to..."

Walter's head leans to the side, and he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. "Humor me… humor the whims of an old man."

He can almost  _hear_ the tremble of her lower lips, the choke in her breath, and the sorrow seeping through her tear ducts at his disguised plea.

"W— _W_...we couldn't just… let you  _die._  Not like that… Integra wouldn't have it. Not even after what you did… what you've  _been_ planning to do."  _Ah, so she knows..._

He doesn't know what possesses him in the next moment. Integra has always been something like a daughter to him, even between the highs and lows, between the lines; that's never changed, even when he was delivering his villainous monologue. It's expected of her, so that's not what's incessantly tugging at his mind like a hardened and jagged thorn.

"How about you? How would you have me?"

He needs the reassurance; a fool's wish, but one he found comfort in, even when he was betraying them. Even now, as she expresses complex emotions to him; uncertainty, fear, sorrow, regret, heartbreak.

But then, all illusions are shattered:

"Me? I wouldn't," her words are ice and her gaze is a blizzard. "… not after what you've done. If it were up to me,  _Angel of Death,_ you should have perished right where you stood; right across my master." Her voice breaks at the word  _master;_ this doesn't go unnoticed by him, and he finds himself beginning to wonder just what  _exactly_ is happening, because this is not what Seras had been expressing at the time; this hadn't even been what she'd been expressing mere seconds ago.

But then a smile stretches over his lips; cruel, slimy,  _sordid._

_...right across my master._

"Oh… that's  _right_ ; I had nearly  _forgott_ _en._ Alucard is—"

He doesn't get to finish, and not soon after he said that blasted name does he tastes his own blood.

The mighty punch to his face, the ragged pant that heaves her chest, the absolute  _loathe_ in her eyes only makes his smile grow. The blood that oozes from his nose makes his vendetta that much sweeter, even for a brief second.

But, her voice, for what she says next, is such a near whisper, that if it weren't for his newfound enhanced hearing, would have missed it entirely.

"But for  _Walter?_ The man I came to know and care for…? I would welcome  _him_ back with open arms."

_Remarkable indeed..._

Seras turns away, making herself scarce and Walter can only look on to her retreating form.

_They are mine now… mine **alone.** They are lost to you  **forever.**_

Walter considers that.

_Not quite, Alucard. Not even close._

**( &.)**

It becomes something like a routine now; Seras visits him in intervals. He's yet to figure out exactly how the days go by. If he had to guess though, he at least knows that even as an artificial vampire, he's more active during the night. Whether that begins at 8 pm or even till 11 pm, he's not entirely sure, but that's all he has to go on.

He always asks Seras what they plan to do with him; surely they don't expect to have him here for the rest of eternity.

Even as he is now, he wouldn't dream Integra that stupid.

But instead of answering his questions, she asks her own. "Are you content with yourself? With everything's that's happened… would you do it again?" Seras ever the peacekeeper, ever the  _heroine_ trying to keep things civil.

She looms over him like Death, an outstretched hand gripping the hard plastic under the guise of not making a mess. But he knows better; she can barely stand to be at this proximity.

 _But,_ as he licks his lips with sinful delicacy, trying to savor every drop of the medical blood he's been fed,  _it's expected._

Even now, she's trying to find an  _excuse,_ and he's sure that, by extension, so is Integra.

He doesn't know how many times he needs to spell it out for them; he's past the point of  _caring_ what they think, accepting that they simply don't understand him.

… so why does it send a stinging pain in his gut when he does so?

He looks at her then; steely, blank, unwavering. A challenge, like always.

 _Seras Victoria doesn't know the real me, does she?_ There was really only one person—  _creature,_ who did, to an extent. And now he's gone; thanks to himself, of course.  _You've been deluding yourself, traitor. Use your head; you couldn't win if you tried a thousand times._

A pause, "I would do it a thousand times."

The look of disappointment she give him should feel victorious. It's anything but.

The blood tastes vile now. He shoves it away as much as the chains let him as if it were something holy; burning. Seras takes it with half-effort, her gaze already too far away from him. He's disappointed her again. He knows that he's been disappointing her, but somehow, that fact only makes him feel worse each time.  _Blasted Doctor; I knew he was a farce. His stupid supposed chip doesn't even function properly._

"I know you would; I'd figure I would at least ask anyway."

"If that's your intention, then you're going to find yourself asking that same question for as long as you live."

Her sad smile catches him by surprise.

"At least you still have your jokes, Walter."

He refuses to acknowledge the fact that she's said his name this time, without struggling to actually say it.

He'll take it.

**( &.)**

He drifts in and out of consciousness. It took him a while, but he realizes now, that Seras doesn't visit him every day. With each passing night, he's getting stronger. Slowly and surely. But it's not enough. Not yet; it will be, though… someday.

_And then what? What exactly do you expect to do afterwards?_

His fists clench, despite the harsh sting on his wrists. This is precisely why he'd been so bothered when he realized the implications of his… visit. He was  _content_ with Death; he  _welcomed_ it. For what place is there for a traitorous, sham of a vampire? A loser one at that, with nothing more than a desire for petty vengeance.

Despite what's thought of him, he  _doesn't_ have an ulterior motive; this is the only time he's willing to admit that Alucard was  _right._ All he wanted was a fight; preferably one where he'd beat the living daylights out of that bloody bastard. But it was never more beyond that; he doesn't want to take over Hellsing, or the world, or anything of that nature.

All he wanted was one, stupid fight. And he'd been willing to die for it;  _that_ was the plan. Like a true coward, he'd die before paying the price of his deliberate betrayal. Except it  _didn't_ go according to plan; he never had thought of the aftermath that came with this nonsense. What would it be, then?

Going back to being Hellsing's  _butler?_ He would have scoffed… if the idea didn't appeal to him.

_You pathetic man. You pathetic, stupid, useless old man._

Walter just barely dips into a realm of a deep, much needed, slumber, even with being what he is now, he's still mostly human; still faulty, and exhausted.

**( &.)**

He doesn't even feel Seras's hand on his forehead.

"Finally realized that, then?" she smiles softly, despite herself. "You'll come around, old friend..."

Taken from her breast pocket, she's overcome to crush the object in her hand; to think, such a small device could cause this much trouble. She stares at it.

_The chip._

"You'll definitely come around; you're not as far gone as you'd like to think..."

**( &. )**

Contrary to what one might think, Seras doesn't actually dread her nightly visits with Walter; not enough to still have herself somewhat coherent at least. It's a surprise to her, if she were to be honest, that he hasn't actively tried to rip her face off. But then again… she hadn't known exactly what to expect of a newly awakened Walter C. Dornez.

It comes as a surprise to Sir Integra as well.

"How's he faring?" Even now, Seras can see quite clearly the conflict within her master's eyes. She's trying to pretend that this situation, these circumstances as they stand, don't affect her.

But they both know that isn't quite true.

Seras holds herself confidently, firm and unwavering in her resolve, but it's all in the eyes; it's in both of theirs. "He's… settling; a stubborn one, he is, but I'm making do."

"Hmm," Integra shuts her eyes, twisting the cigar, close to chewing on it, even. "I see… You haven't—"

"No, Sir Integra. I don't think..." she licks her lips; she'd forgotten herself, and had hastily interrupted her master rather abruptly, "… it's the right time. Not yet; soon, perhaps."

_Yeah, right._

"Probably never is more like it; could you imagine, once he realizes the truth?"

Seras doesn't want to imagine.

Integra rubs her temples, surely a headache starting to seep through even her glasses, and it's in this moment that Seras gets a pang of guilt. "What do you think Alucard would say on this matter?" It's so uncharacteristic of her to ask Seras for a genuine opinion, combined with the surprise of Integra uttering his name since his alleged death, it has her near-stricken, rooted to the spot in a stupor. She doesn't want to believe that Integra is asking that to amplify her guilt, if her tired, aging blue eyes are anything to go by.

"He'd probably say how stupid I've acting."

Integra, for what feels like it's been a long time, smiles minutely. "I think you underestimate yourself, Seras," she taps gloved fingers against her desk, eyeing the beautiful pattern on the material the moonlight illuminates as she does so; she's never really had an opportunity to truly appreciate it until now. The weight of the Hellsing name always looming over her shoulders like Death, now seems like a mere shadow in the proverbial grand scheme of things; she has the girl, at least and it's enough for now. She's always had to bear the weight mostly on her frame. "I think that, perhaps… you're—"

In a bold gesture that is just too unlike Seras, said girl takes a step forward, surprising Integra. "With all due respect, Sir Integra, I don't. Think, that is..."

Integra raises a brow.

"We wouldn't be in this mess if I did."

Her master sighs, and she leans against her chair, suddenly tired, much too tired for someone her age. She is not in the mood to go back and forth in this squabble.

"Indeed… Seras Victoria."

Integra only eyes the poor girl as she excuses herself, leaving her to her own thoughts. She takes a drag of her cigar, savoring the sensation. It would be a lie to say she hadn't felt conflicted; she's been going on as if the Walter down there in the basement is unknown to her. Alien. And in a way, it's true;  _ignorance is bliss_ after all. She hasn't fully digested the fact that, perhaps, she never truly knew The Angel of Death to begin with. The mere thought of his betrayal still sends sparks of anger through her, but she has to collect herself.

After all, he's their…  _house-guest_  now.

And yet, she can't find it within herself to be  _truly_ angry with Seras. If anything, it's humorously ironic.

_History manages to repeat itself. Like master, like fledgling, I suppose. But you're wrong, Seras; you're becoming a Countess all your own._

And Integra is  _quite_ curious to see how this…  _all this…_ plays out, in the end, and until then, she won't bother with the bloody, traitorous nuisance that she hold captive down below. Walter is dead to her now.

_Farewell, Walter, and may we never meet again._

She sighs. So much for that arrangement.

**( &. )**

In what he believes to be a frugal attempt to be considerate, Seras brings him his monocle, albeit refurbished, her next visit. As expected on his end, he isn't exactly kind.

"I suppose you expect gratitude," he says with a pokerface.

Seras bites her cheek so she can hold herself back from saying something quite un-lady like, and rather unbecoming for someone with her standing; she opts to be the bigger person. "You're  _welcome,"_ her teeth grind together, but she's kind enough to place it over his eye for him; not that he could, in any case. To her surprise, he doesn't put up any resistance, instead closing his eyes to let her do the work.

She tries to ignore the feel of his skin as it nearly brushes her cold fingers. Up until his betrayal, she's held Walter in the highest respect; he was someone worth his prime during his best times, he was a skilled fighter and extremely loyal. Kind and very much gentlemanly; he'd been aging with elegance and grace. What a shame, indeed.

_And yet…_

"It's not that hard- Just hook it behind the ear." His voice makes her jump, which to her relief, he doesn't pick up, for he's still waiting patiently with both eyes closed. Seras grunts as a response, mumbling under her breath; if she had to guess, based on that irritated hum seeping through his words, he isn't exactly thrilled to have her in his personal space.

She's  _very_ close to him; the bloody monocle is such a finicky little thing.  _Now, how do I…?_ She fiddles with the string attached to it, trying to mind the hook and not poke his eye.  _How does this thing_ _ **stay**_ _on…?_ The animal part of Seras, the one she's been trying to suppress even now, even after everything she's done, urges her to gauge his eyes out; just purely out of spite, and she knows he'd be able to handle it. She knows it would amuse Integra, even if she wouldn't praise her outwardly.

_It would definitely serve him right, it would._

But almost as if he hears just what's on her mind, his eyes open and, had she been a newly formed fledgling, she would have jumped  _miles_ away, but she isn't so she doesn't and she  _refuses_ to; still, she can't stop her instinctual flinch. His eyes were  _hard,_ merciless… cold. Heck, her hands are still mere seconds away from his near-porcelain skin; if he'd just move his head forward, they'd be all but  _touching_ —

 _Familiar._ His eyes are  _familiar;_ they remind her, vividly, of something-  _someone,_ she knows. Someone she misses. And, in that moment, whether she realizes it or not, she doesn't mean Alucard either.

Her upmost attention near tunnel visioned on those rigid eyes, that she almost doesn't hear his words. "I would suggest,  _Seras,_ that if you're going to attack me, you'd at least let me have a fair shot. Seems near insulting for you to kick what's chained against silver binds..."

The implication doesn't go unnoticed, and her eyes rove to that particular spot on his cheek, and… much to her dismay she actually feels, well...

— _guilty._

She doesn't move from her spot; Walter doesn't either. It's a stare off that probably would have made her former master proud; she had never been particularly  _good_ at maintaining eye contact, even from her days as a cadet and  _definitely_ not after her true awakening as a true vampire. Her throat feels constricted, aching with the severe dryness- not from thirst, but from feeling  _unsettled._ She has to grind her teeth together to remind herself that there's still  _hope._

Walter— The  _real_ Walter is in there, somewhere. Beneath this sourly, steely face, with near-perfect complexion and silky tendrils of black hair.

He's in there. She knows it.

"Do you truly hold me capable of doing such a lowly act?" Her eyebrow twitches, and she tries to maintain her voice to be as cold and ruthless as his, "I'm not  _you;_ far from it, actually. I'm just trying to  _help._ "

Walter scoffs under his breath. "Call it a hunch,  _little girl." Okay, you know what? I'm going to punch him; I'm going to punch him and_ _ **pull**_ _that stupid hair of his and—_ "If I didn't know any better, I'd even say you're looking  _forward_ to it."

"Why you  _sniveling_ son of a—!"

 _I grow rather tired of this._ He turns abruptly away, sucking his teeth in clear annoyance; "Unless you have plans for a snog, I would suggest clearing from my space, immediately. _"_ His tone is not unlike the one he used with Integra as the prelude to his battle with Alucard; he's not only bothered, he's  _threatening_ her.

The pretentiousness and sheer audacity has Seras  _reeling,_ and she huffs loudly as she stands, making sure to clear space for  _his Highness._ " _Oh,_ well,  _excuse me_ , you bloody wanker; here I thought I'd actually be  _nice_ and not have your stay here be so  _dreadful_.  _Forgive me_ for trying to make peace out of the mess  _you've created for yourself!"_

"I was  _dead_ for Christ's sake; I had paid for my mistakes,  _my regrets._ Don't assume you know the half of it; I don't owe an explanation!"

"So go ahead and shove it up your  _arse_ then!" And in a very unlike mannerism for around the second time in the span of twenty-four hours, Seras sticks the bird. Courtesy and manners be damned. Without waiting for yet another verbal retaliation, she turns away in haste. She mutters obscenities all the way out the door, kicking it shut.

And Walter is left… rather confused, bewildered, and most of all…

— _entertained?_

It's quiet for a few moments, before he allows himself the luxury of chuckling.

 _What the bloody hell… just happened? Did I just… did I just engage in a verbal confrontation with a nineteen year old child?_ He throws his head back and for once in a long time feels… like he… like he just had fun. As if he were fourteen years old all over again, despite being in the body of a young adult.

But then the lighthearted feeling leaves as soon as it came; a fleeting notion, and he's left staring in melancholy at the empty space next to him. His monocle falls, not having been properly secure to his socket; it doesn't break, miraculously.

"Blasted girl should have just punched me again," he whispers.

The only sound that's left is his light breathing, and he prays that, too, stops soon.

**( &. )**

And Seras? She tries not to dwell on the words he's uttered:  _my mistakes, my_ _ **regrets.**_  And, as she lies in her coffin at the end of her day, she lets herself smile with those words on repeat.

_Regrets, eh?_

He's admitted to it, even inadvertently; he  _regretted_ betraying them, and that… that makes her heart feel so  _warm._

It isn't until she's well into her daytime routine the next day that she realizes he also said something else to her; something that should have made her still the second it left his mouth:

_Snog._

She almost chokes on a piece of toast.

**( &. )**

When she reports the progress to Sir Integra, she receives a 'good job' for her efforts. And for a moment, everything is so  _well;_ there  _is_ hope for Walter, things are not out of reach, and even Integra, bless her, seems touched.

But then… Seras  _thinks._

And she does so until she's no longer smiling and can't even slumber properly. She thinks critically, and realizes something important. Seras had made a promise with herself long ago; to not be so easily impacted by things that intimidate her, and it's one she's been trying to implement to her person as early as her days as a cadet. Even when she was taken under Alucard's wing; it's something she likes to think she's gotten better at, but then there are times she remembers her official turning point, when she had to suck Pip's blood from his fresh corpse…

_She's only gotten so far._

Integra, dare she say, is content with her progress; but Seras doesn't think it's all that grand. She knows her master's word is law, as far as Hellsing is concerned but…

_Was that the kind of answer you were hoping for, Seras?_

It's not.

And so, she finds herself in a conflict, just as she makes herself down the steps leading to the damned subbasement of Hellsing manor, she makes a firm decision.

She turns around, and walks back up.

Because even Seras isn't stupid enough to trick herself into thinking that she isn't scared; she's not.

She's  _terrified._

That bloody voice of his has filled her mind since then; it's been ringing and ringing, robbing her of sleep and questions of  _what if I had approached him? What if I had done_ ** _more_** _?_ fill her mind.

**( &. )**

One missed visit turns into three. She doesn't really have a choice but to go back. He needs to be fed.

He is her responsibility, after all.

**( &. )**

"And here I thought you couldn't stand the sight of me, anymore; I assumed you were dead, you know." Oh, he's getting a kick out of this; a side of Walter she was never introduced to, or rather, she never even knew about.

_Angel of Death, eh?_

For someone whose words reflect hope and even bitterness, he sure does a damn good job at delivering it with a silky and sleazy pitch. Damn him. Her only reaction to that is to squeeze the medical bag for all that it's worth, which honestly isn't even that much and—

"You're avoiding to look at me," he says it with such  _confidence;_ couldn't he let her contemplate the bag of medical blood in  _peace_  as she made herself to him, at least? "Does my form truly dismay you that much?" He sounds like he wants to  _chuckle_ at her expense and, at that, Seras does look up, glaring— and she gets the feeling that he hasn't look at anything but her since she started walking in here.

As expected of such a beast, he has the audacity to smile.

And vaguely  _—she gulps,_ it reminds her of the time they first met; when he handed her newly pressed uniform. She hadn't thought much of his kind smile at the time, simply taking it as a kind gesture but—

_but now?_

Perhaps it never was a kind smile. The realization makes her lower her eyes in shame.

For that particular visit, no more words are exchanged between them, and Seras pretends she doesn't notice the holes he burns at the base of her skull as she walks away.

**( &. )**

It continues like that in similar fashion for an additional two visits. She's visiting less and less now.

Seras offers very little words, if any, that aren't related to his physical condition or exhaustion levels. In addition to his wrist shackles, she provides a couple for his ankles when he wasn't looking. He wonders how she did that; now his ankles are in constant pain, too.

He'd thought, after much contemplating, that she would at least complain about the  _snog_ comment he'd said without thinking a couple of days ago. He'd meant… to at least apologize. He owed her at least that. But the more she avoided him — _the more it became like the first time all over again—_ he got the urge less and less, until it was eradicated from his system completely.

And he becomes cross all over again.

But this time, he makes himself known; he'll be damned if he's ignored again. Especially by some  _child._  He'll make her listen, if that's what he needs to do.

Walter begins to formulate a plan.

As it turns out the best plan, given his circumstances, he can come up with is simple communication. The thought is immensely off-putting.

But he could at least have fun.

The next time they meet, he tries, "You've managed to master that arm of yours, Seras," he had commented to her offhandedly. It makes said girl pause, as if contemplating the prisoner's words. Walter is surprised at the breath he holds, waiting for a response. He releases a disgruntled sigh when she averts her eyes  _again._ Indeed, though it's been a very short time from when she lost the arm, he's sure; she's already mostly mastered of having it shape-shift to whatever form she wishes, albeit with slight difficulty. It's obvious to him.

As per the usual routine, she pops the medical bag open, taking apart the thin string part of it that also serves as a makeshift straw to the person's mouth. Seras says nothing, eyeing the words of the label like they're all but fascinating for the world to see; she seems to be deep in thought, so she doesn't register the first few moments of inactivity. She blinks, field of vision all on the contents inside the plastic; it swishes just slightly, but none of it is going through the thin string. Walter is not drinking.

_...eh?_

She looks to him and—?

_Is he… bloody **pouting**?_

It almost looks like it; Walter's face is turned away from the bag. Not unlike a child who refuses to eat their vegetables. "...huh?" is all she can voice at his petulance; such an expression on a young… aesthetically pleasing face is… well, strange.  _It's not_ ** _that_** _different when Alucard would do such a thing…_ She thinks of her former master's face and shudders;  _actually, let me take that back._  "O-oi…  _Oi!_ " No response and—

_...is he… is he **ignoring** me?!_

A vein protrudes on her forehead, and she grits her teeth in frustration.  _I see;_ because even someone like her isn't naive to what he's trying to do. The worse part about it though, is that it's  _working_. She is only nineteen, after all. Seras clutches the medical bag, struggling to get any words out; normally, of course, she would just leave. But then she remembers Sir Integra; she remembers that this  _—this whole thing—_ is her own fault, she remembers her master and she remembers all the other reasons why she's dealing with this nonsense.

Walter is also one of those reasons, too.

She sighs, exasperated; defeated. "... _alright_ , I'll bite..." Still no acknowledgment. Her fists clench. "Why aren't you…  _feeding_? You going to seriously resort to acting like a child?" She gets the impression he wants to laugh at her expense; something about his eyes tell her so, and she tries desperately to ignore the pang of unease in her chest. "What is it? Is it the blood? I'm afraid Sir Integra isn't exactly trusting you to go about on your own to feed; I thought the artificial lot of you didn't even  _need_ blood. It's just us being nice to you, believe it or now..." Still no response. He's not even looking at the bag.

When did their roles reverse so drastically?

For a few moments, she can almost forget that she's bloody terrified of the man; it almost feels like they're on amiable terms. He could be doing this just to mess with her; maybe he's waiting for the opportune moment to strike. The thought immediately puts her off, and she brings in her hands. It reminds her that she  _doesn't_ know this new and strange person.  _I never did…_

She bites her lips, unsure. Telling Sir Integra would be a disservice and it would be unfair.

"… why are you crying?" His voice, though confident and unwavering, comes unexpectedly to her ears, and it takes a second for her to register that, indeed, a single crimson stream travels down her face. " _You've_ been ignoring me in severe increments since I woke up; this is how you respond when I reciprocate?" There's a tinge, just so, of genuine sincerity; she can't exactly place his intentions, but she knows that, in his own peculiar way, he's trying to comfort her. He isn't mocking her. "Are you still so capable of drawing tears for someone like me?"

 _...what?_ But she only stays fixated on that for a second, before she wipes the blood in haste, suddenly embarrassed. She'd expected him to  _demand_ from her; that's the picture she'd painted of this new Walter. Not… not  _this._ He's acting like he… like he  _cares._   _Yes.. he does; he's not under the chip's influence anymore… So, why… **why** do I remain… scared of him?_

Finally, she considers Walter as he is before her. He almost looks innocent; perhaps in another life, another time, another universe, she would have even—

"Was it worth it?"

He blinks, his own gaze flickers, unsure of this approach of hers. Seras's gaze does not waver. It feels like the first couple of days all over again.

Instead, he answers her with a question of his own. "Why do you speak to me as if I'm on trial?"

She licks her lips, as if reaffirming herself. "Perhaps you are, Dornez."

He scoffs. "We've already been through this."

Her blonde hair sways with her as she shakes her head, "No; I had asked you if you were content with yourself. You told me you would do it again a thousand times. But that's now what I'm asking right now; I'm asking you..." her gaze hardens, "Was it worth it?"

And in that moment, Walter notices it; her lips are quivering… Her fists are trembling, and her muscles are tense. She's… she's not  _angry_.

She's  _petrified._

Now this… this is a feeling he's most unsatisfied with. Some part of him, whatever is left of the nice gentlemanly butler, wants to reach out if he could. But the words stumble over without he processes them properly. "Why are you  _afraid_ of me?" He'd known that she was afraid of what he'd become, of the process he'd endured, of the  _reasons,_ of his betrayal itself, of his mental state and his unpredictable emotional state.  _But… but of_ ** _me_** _?_ He hadn't known that.

Seras snaps to, as if she's been slapped;  _she's been caught,_ and she stands up quickly. Too quickly for him to take those words back. But before her hand even touches the door, his voice stops her;

" _Seras, **stop!** "_

That makes her freeze, and she realizes she'd scuttled away as if she had a beast on her end. Walter sounds like he's holding back, like he's trying not to  _growl_  from utter frustration. Red liquid blurs her vision, and her breaths are harsh. "It's  _alright_ ; just breathe… I'm not going to hurt you, despite my attitude thus far."

That sounds so awfully close to an apology and _—fuck,_ ** _stop_** _it! Because_ ** _why_** _is he acting so nice? Why is he acting like he used to when I know that's not what he was?_ She tries to convince herself it's a trick; he's buttering her up. No doubt he'll come out right behind her, thanks to her negligence, eager to cut her into little pieces and reveal himself to be the big bad villain. Her body auto-pilots, tensing itself at the possibility of danger and  _she prays_ that's what it is. She's taking this too personally; his vendetta  _never_ involved her. She's only been affiliated with Hellsing for… what? A year, at most? It certainly felt like it. So why does it  _hurt?_ _Why does_ _his betrayal_ _hurt_ ** _so much_** _?_ She brings a gloved hand to her eyes, wiping angrily. How pathetic she is. She risks at glance, an attempt to break her self-imposed shell,

only to see him looking to her with  _concern_ ; like he wants to get up and go to her.

Her lips quiver, suddenly frustrated, angry, all over gain. "Was it  _worth_ it, Walter?! Was it?" That's not even close to what she wanted to say; but it's apparently the one that her mind needs to have resolved.

Walter sags slightly against the chains, as if defeated.

"It never was."

"So  _why?!_ "  _Why couldn't you just be the typical bad guy? Why did you act nice to me all this time? Why did you just not fight him when you were younger?! Why why why why—_ her mere thoughts nearly choke her. "Why couldn't you just— _Why didn't you just—_ ** _Why?!"_** His soft smile catches her off guard, and she's already realized too late how many bloody tears have escaped her tear ducts. She doesn't even know what she's trying to ask; but Walter seemingly does.

_Look at you; sixty years and in your heart, you're still the same. Just a scrawny brat._

"I was afraid."

She freezes, and finally opens her eyes, and she doesn't know what to make of his expression. Like he's gone through hell and back; and perhaps he has…

"I was afraid… of… being forgotten. Of growing old and decrepit. Of becoming obsolete..."

And for the first time in the time she's known Walter— in the  _total_ amount of time she's known the man— Seras Victoria realizes something very important about them both; They're both bloody such  _scaredy cats,_ aren't they?

When Seras suddenly laughs, a  _genuine_ full-hearted and good-natured laugh, Walter can't help but smile in return.


	4. uncomfortable

**WARNING:** _this isn't NC-17, but it is heavy and dark. There_ **_is_ ** _rape (aka: "dubcon"), abduction,_ _mentions of_ _Nazism and_ _other sensitive topics_ _. Please continue at your own risk; you have been warned._

**summary:** _"I'll pretend it's you, the real you back in your old body," — #Seras/Walter #Dark!Walter #DubCon_

* * *

  **serendipitous  
** _**[ 30 day prompt challenge ]  
****uncomfortable**_

 **THE FIRST TIME** it happens, it's not beautiful or satisfying, it's ugly and it happens in a way that, for all intents and purposes,  _could_  be romantic, ironically enough; there's moonlight, she's in her apartment bedroom wearing flimsy pj's, and he really isn't bad looking. When she realizes, as the moonlight hits his face perfectly, that the monocle and the wires are  _unmistakable_ , she prays her vampiric vision is defective.

Seras is a strong young woman, she's been through a lot in her short life, so it's no question that when it happens, she takes it like a  _Forlorn Hope_ soldier. She sheds tears, and though he is surprisingly gentle and even almost gentlemanly, which confuses her to no end, he is power hungry; he's only doing this because he can. He ignores her pleas and stills her with his wires; he's 'nice' to enough to get her ready, if it can be called such a thing, but it's hardly satisfying or pleasurable. She's broken, but it's not because of what he's doing, but because this is supposed to be someone she  _knows,_ someone she  _trusts_. This man, young and handsome and dark, is a stranger, alien and a monster; a power hungry beast that's doing what he does because of his newfound power. His hand grips the lower half of her face, and further tears are squeezed out. She tells herself she lets it happen because she's in a state of shock. Even though she knows the real reason, is fear, and disbelief.

The entire time, she has her eyes clamped shut, and she imagines someone else in his place.

When it's over, she finally looks at him, hoping he can read the question in her eyes,  _Why?_ _Why would you this to me?_ Not,  _Who are you? What did they to you? How are you young?_ but a very strong and resounding  _Why?_

He offers no explanation or justification; he looks at her like he pities her, and simply tells her, "I'm sorry." She can't decipher his tone, or read his thoughts, and doesn't know what to make of it.

The strange part about it though, is that after it's over, he doesn't even look satisfied; she's seen rape, she's not ignorant, and when it's done regardless of the reason  _—it's always for power—_ there's physical satisfaction, release; it's basic human biology. She sees none on him; he looks like he wants to throw up, and like he's in pain.

When she goes in to Hellsing the next morning, she finds new circulating that Walter C. Dornez, codenamed  _The Angel of Death,_ has deflected Hellsing, and is renegade, having been uncovered as an agent of Millenium. She isn't surprised; she just wants to know,  _Why?_ She vows to not sleep in her apartment anymore. She does not tell Sir Integra, or even Alucard, too embarrassed that she'd been weak enough to let it happen in the first place. She knows, of course, that's part of the experience of a rape; but she is  _not_ a mere human, she's a  _vampire,_ better yet, an official heir to The Count himself, a  _Draculina_. There is no excuse for what had happened. Human rules do not apply to her.

She hadn't even fought back.

She has nightmares from it, and she  _hates_ him because of what he makes her feel; it would be  _easy_ to hate him simply because he violated her, that he enjoyed it. But he hadn't, and it makes her feel an estranged type of  _sympathy._ She hates him for making her question herself.

The second time it happens, she's hyperaware of it, but she doesn't go down quietly.

Millenium launches their attack; she has a new arm, and is ready for anything. The three of them, Alucard, Sir Integra and her go into the  _Deux Ex Machina_ ready to put the fat man to his well deserved place in  _hell_. Except The Major  _isn't_  there; The Captain, Walter and Schrodinger are in his place, they've been waiting. Seras doesn't miss the way he side-eyes her, like he's surprised that she's here; as if he hadn't expected for her to be a capable fighter. Pip tells her to snap out of it, and to focus on the The Captain; Alucard takes on Walter. But several things happen at once almost right after; Alexander goes into the mix, taking Alucard's attention, Integra is shot by the stupid cat-boy, Nazi ghouls crawl out like cockroaches, and The Captain bolts within the zeppelin.

Seras gives chase, intent on putting the dog out of its' misery. She kicks through metal, fires at the shadows and shoots her arm. When she sees a moving shadow, she kicks, aiming for the head. She is held mid-air by wires, and her eyes widen; but she shakes her head. She is not the same as before; she's a real vampire now. But his calm composure has her on edge; she hides her denial well, because even Pip doesn't pick up on her supposed irrational composure. Her arm is shot out. But he doesn't even bat an eyelash; he simply side steps the attack. He lets her go, and she is nearly dropped to the floor, but she aims herself in such a way that she lands further away.

Her hearing catches a sound to her right;  _The Captain_ is out of the coat, glowing white and  _hunting._ Fear shoots up her spine; she is not prepared to take on a werewolf. Wires pull her back, and just as she about to scream, a gloved hand clamps over her mouth. They hide, and the werewolf-man lingers for only a second before advancing to another hallway. She trembles with confusion and dread. She tries to shoot her arm; former master vampire hunter he may be, but she  _knows_ he is no match for Alucard, by extension that also includes her.  _There's just no way_.

Her heart trembles when he easily maneuvers out of the way; he has her strapped to a metal pillar in less than a minute. In her stress, her arm dissipates; she is helpless, her crimson eyes not so shiny anymore. Hands go under her skirt.  _"Stop it,"_ she hisses out, half deranged and half panicked; he stops marginally. "He'll come for me;  _my master_ ** _will_** _come for me!"_ As if on cue, series of explosions go off from the deck above, where the main control room is. He looks back to her as if to say,  _that's not happening._ His fingers get to work. he's not even raping her via penetration; he just wants to  _violate_ her, period. It's not painful; he's  _bloody gentle,_ and it's confusing to her. She attempts to headbutt him, but he only slams her head back against the pillar with the other hand, earning him a groan from the pain. He's strong; whatever they've done to him, it's effective. She tries to fight against the wires, but if she ends up squeezing through them, she will be wholly sliced.

So she closes her eyes for the ordeal and she imagines someone else in his place, just to make it more tolerable.

She notes, how he shakes. If she tries hard enough, she can  _almost_ pretend he's another young man, and they're just fooling around in an alleyway outside a club, experimenting and being curious. He grinds against her thigh; she moans shakily in dread, and in disgust when she feels him… finishing, flushing warm against the skin of her thigh through his pants. She wants to throw up. He lets her go, and she slumps in shame, trying to collect herself. But then the anger comes, and she lunges. With a mere flick of his wrist, she is sent flying against the many steel walls; blood rises to her throat just from the impact.

The last thing she hears before everything goes black: "I'm sorry."

She takes a while to wake, and when she does, she immediately checks if her clothes had been ripped off, or if she's aching; she isn't, but it brings no relief. They recruit back to the manor; too many casualties, and Millenium is  _still_ standing, but at least they'd gotten rid of The Doctor, his body found in a heap under the debris, his hand ripped clean off as if cut by wires. Nobody inquired about it.

"What happened down there, Seras?" Integra questions her.

She freezes and hangs her head. "I… I was incompetent."

"That's not what I asked." Integra may know something; Seras doesn't know how, but she does. "You're hiding something."

Seras tries her hardest not to gulp; miraculously, she keeps her composure. "I was knocked out, Master Integra. I apologize, it won't… happen again." She can't read her former Master; he's not even looking at her. Does he suspect something too?  _Can he smell her?_

Integra narrows her eyes, "It better not; that's an order."

"Yes Master Integra."

Hellsing grows; with the bloody Doctor gone, their main goal is to wipe off the remaining ghouls and vampires. The Captain had been killed by Sir Integra, and The Major is in hiding. Millenium is dwindling, and Hellsing is going to clean up the mess, as ordered by The Queen. Seras is charge of training the recruits, in building battalions for Hellsing. She's powerful, she's growing, and she's learning. Alucard still won't talk to her much, but she tries not to let it deter her.

She tries not to question herself, but it becomes inevitable when one of the soldiers tries some funny business with her; it comes to be an annoyance. He's too handsy, apparently has a thing for undead women, especially with the assets she has. The idiot corners her behind the manor during the moonlight one night, and she hopes Integra will forgive her; the only thing that manages to survive from his venture is his head. Literally. Alucard emerges from the shadows, smirk ever-present. "My, that was quite the show; did you have someone in your mind, Police Girl?" It comes as a relief though, that she isn't scared of being touched, this just proves she's more than capable of helping herself.  _So why? Why does she let herself when it's_ ** _him_** _?_

No, The Doctor is gone, even if the traitor had survived, he wouldn't live long as what he is. His vampirism relies on technology, not the true  _Nosferatu_ way. He's a fake, a fraud, a  _nothing._ She squeezes the head in her hand until it pops, blood and viscera spraying her uniform; she does not drink.

The third time she encounters him… it doesn't really happen at all.

Around two months later, she is on a solo mission to defeat some ghouls, ironically enough, in the remote Cheddar Village; the very one where she had been transformed into a vampire. She carries normal sized rifles this time; she stopped taking a liking to her Harkonnen. The beasts go down easy; they aren't even a workout anymore, merely fodder for her. She ends up in the same church, she spots a lone figure obscured by the shadows. She takes aim and shoots, but then there's a flash of blue, and her stomach drops. Her eyes glow, and she takes cover behind the back row of seats; she's prepared for this possibility, she's grown, she's not  _weak._ So… why are her hands shaking? Her grip on the handle of her weapons are trembling, along with her breath, but she regains her composure quickly. She dares to take a peek; he is not there anymore.

She is then hauled by the ankles, swung against the establishment like a stuffed animal. He is not the only one with fancy toys; she grabs her switch knife, made from the same material as his wires, and she cuts through the threads with ease, but he's faster, and now her hands are tangled, her knife out of her grip.  _Shit._ She is pulled to him, and not wanting for her limbs to become detached, lets herself be pulled.

They are face to face; both wrists are in his control, he is not threatened by the shadow. Her other arm is held above his shoulder, as if she'd been reaching for something behind him, her legs spread apart as they'd skid across the room. He has that same look on his face as the first time. Like he's pitying her. She snarls. " _Why?!"_ she spits out, "Why are you…  _Why_ have you been—" she knows what she wants to say, but she simply doesn't want to say it; it would make this real. It would make his betrayal real, and it would make  _everything_ real. He has the same look The Captain did. That scares her, and her face contorts from a snarl to dawning realization.

She thinks to what he's said the past three times;  _I'm sorry._

Somehow, that truth is more vile than simply him violating her for power. It means there is a higher power; it means… it means he isn't to blame, not entirely. She doesn't know  _what_ she feels, but she doesn't get a chance to find out as he hauls her by the throat. He twitches, as if fighting something, a  _feeling_ , and he says it: "I'm sorry." She tenses, but is surprised when she is thrown with immeasurable strength against the wall; it crumbles, and she tumbles outside against some trees. She sees him with her enhanced vision; his  _Sieg Heil salute_ is mechanical, forced, and it all clicks.

It clicks awfully.

"Walter  _wait!"_ she calls out, trying to reach out; but he is gone.

And so, Seras makes a decision that could cost her life; she mentions none of it to Sir Integra. On the next couple of briefings, not once does she mention Walter; nobody does, and she assumes that everyone must think he's dead. Integra doesn't ask; perhaps he is dead to her, and Seras doesn't blame her. She asks about the Millenium's vampire chips, the ones that were embedded in the bootleg vampires and finds out they are embedded on the neck. With that information, she takes on more solo missions, hoping to run into him. She eventually does; it's in another isolated village, overrun by ghouls and almost too easy, as if it's planned. "Walter!" she cries, not entirely sure why, "Walter  _please_ look at me!  _Look_ at me damnit!" Her shadow hand launches in his direction and she manages to barely evade wires; he's holding back immensely, she would not be living if he wasn't. He eventually does, but he does not respond, merely looks at her with that same, pitiful and blank expression. It's only now she notices his eyes. The story is all in the eyes: He's telling her to run.

She doesn't, and her hand shoots out for the side of his neck.  _The chip,_ she thinks maniacally,  _this chip is in the_ ** _neck!_** Her fingers are  _so_ close, and they manage to brush the skin just barely so.

He flinches, and he glares suddenly; he has her against the side of, ironically enough, an abandoned church. He is  _livid._ "What are you  _doing?!"_

"Walter… you don't  _have_ to— he's  _gone!_ The Doctor is  _gone_ ; you're life isn't any under threat! You can come back… you can  _come back to us!_  If we just tell Sir Integra—  _ack!"_ the grip on her throat tightens.

"You  _haven't told her?!"_ At first she thinks he's mad because perhaps Sir Integra could have found a way to fix him already; but it soon becomes apparent that isn't the case. "You and Alucard have your  _orders!_ Nothing and  _nobody stands in the way of Hellsing!" What?_ She thinks, panicked,  _Why? Why is he being like this!?_

"But… but it wasn't your fault! You were  _forced_ into this;  _you didn't do this!" You didn't rape me._

He shakes his head, and something churns in her stomach. "You're wrong. I've been with Millenium for over sixty years." Long fingers dig in the flesh of neck, pulse wild under his hold, " _Sixty. Years._ Seras Victoria. I am your  _enemy_ ; I want you all  _dead._  Do you understand? I betrayed this bloody organization for a chance to kill your former Master," He hisses out, "Do you understand  _who I am?_ What I've  _done? How_ ** _dare_** _you seek redemption in me where it doesn't_ ** _exist_** _?!"_ He drops her and pins her against the floor, large frame looming over hers. He begins to work on her buttons.

But she is not fooled, nor is she scared. Not really.

"You bloody liar." He freezes and looks at her. She smiles, voice hoarse and raw and  _broken,_  "You bloody fucking liar. Even if you… even if you've planned this for sixty years, why…? Why do you  _shake_ when you take me? Why are you always so gentle?  _Why do you apologize?!"_

"You're grasping straws. I've… I've done all of this… to  _you_  and you have the  _lunacy_ to—"

"And you're not paying attention; you're a bloody traitor, but you're not… you're not a bad person." she coughs, throat aching, "Not even if you pretend to be; you can go ahead, if you wish,"

" _W-what…?"_

"But I'll just do what I've always done, and close my eyes. I'll pretend it's you, the  _real_ you back in your old body," he looks repulsed, but almost in awe at the same time. "And then I'll chase you until I get that blasted chip off of you."

"You little  _fool_ ; you stupid little  _fool!_ _What is wrong with you?! What is the bloody matter with you?_ _"_

She has no argument for him, and despite her brave words, she is utterly  _terrified_ inside. She wants to crawl in a hole and bawl her eyes out. She wants to hurt him, but she wants him alive just for selfish reasons; even if Integra and Alucard and the whole organization do not. She wants him to rot, but she wants him alive. He may be beyond repair,  _extremely_ fucked up; but so is she, in a strange way. Because she knows she's right; it's written all over him, all over his eyes. "Tell me… tell me where those bastards put it." It takes her a moment to realize his eyes are leaking with blood. Her hand finds the back of his neck, an action that makes him tense immediately. " _Tell me where it is."_

The only indication she has other than his tears that he's in distress is a strangled sob that rips from his windpipe. "Seras,  _stop this_ ;  _kill me._ Do it  _now_ damn you! Or else… or else  _this_ will continue. I will  _not_ stop; do you  _understand? Is that what you want?!_ " he means to yell, but his voice comes out like a cracked whisper instead, begging, pleading for mercy.  _"I don't want to do this; I am_ ** _not_** _in control of my body!"_

She closes her eyes, and this time, she is the one to say, "I'm sorry."


	5. time (2)

**serendipitous  
** _**[ 30 day prompt challenge ]  
** _ _**time (II)** _

**SERAS HADN'T STOPPED** staring at him. It had made all his attempts to scrounge the books on the shelves damn near impossible. Walter tried to ignore her, truly, and even though she's sitting at a good enough distance to let him  _breathe,_ he can feel her eyes to the back of his head. Even without looking at her, he can tell she just looks absolutely  _smitten._ Finally, he slams a book in place back onto the shelf with a loud  _—slam!_ and sighs, "Miss Victoria,  _if you please,_ I would appreciate it if  _perhaps_ you can occupy your time  _not_ staring at me? Perhaps help me even?" True as he thought, when he turns to glance, she has a big smile on her face like she's looking at something….  _cute._ That was  _never_ a way to describe The Angel of Death,  _even_ when he  _had_ been that age sixty years ago. "Actually, if you  _really_ want to please me, you could very well  _leave._ This is  _utterly_ ridiculous; I do  _not_ need someone taking  _care_ of me…" he mumbles the last bit.

Not in the least bit deterred, she only shrugs, "You heard Sir Integra; I am not to leave your side for even a minute. I would apologize, except I don't really feel sorry about it. I quite like looking at you."

The ends of his lips twitch in irritation, before growing into a devious smirk. "You know, most would consider that a tad inappropriate, Miss Victoria; are you into younger men?"

"Oh hush, don't be silly; you're just utterly  _adorable._  I can't help it!" she smooths out the wrinkles in her skirt, making herself better positioned on the shellseat. "I didn't know  _this_ is what you looked like! You can't deny the charm in this situation, Walter."

"Yes well, you must pardon me for not leaping for joy; who knows  _what_ the bloody hell is going on or how this even happened." It isn't that he  _doesn't_ enjoy the prospect of his youth; Walter could appreciate the loss of back pain and muscle fatigue, sure, but that's not the bigger picture here. This could be something eerily sinister; witchcraft? Black magic? Could it be he's a target? And why  _this_ age? If he was going to turn younger, it could have been damn well somewhere more sensible like his mid-twenties or thirties; this is just offensive. He doesn't know  _how_ to be a bloody fourteen year old, his body is too…  _small_ and though flexible, it's just inconvenient being this height, just a little shorter than  _Seras_ actually. "I fail to see the  _charm_  as you put it."

She giggles, "It's so funny to hear you talk like  _that_ and being  _that_ young," He rubs his temples, irritated, "Oh come on now, Little Walter, don't be so glum; I say as long as you're not in any pain or anything, just  _take advantage_ of the situation. Be  _young_ , eat some bloody ice cream or go run outside! I'm sure Master and Sir Integra will have this figured out in no time." He is not amused in the slightest, and he voices it. "You've been searching these things for almost two hours now; you're going to spend the whole day just looking through  _books?"_

Exasperated at the lack of concentration, he turns fully around to face her, "Alright  _fine;_ so according to you, I just should just  _eat ice cream_ and  _run outside_ then? That's not a waste of my time at all!"

"Oof, now now, young man, ease it with the attitude, or do you need to be put into time out?" she laughs softly, but stands up and tries to consider his predicament, "Don't be so mad, I'm just trying to get you to relax. Not everyone gets a second chance at their youth, you know. Even if it's just a short while, or however long this will be."

"So then what do  _you_ suggest we do?" he grits through his teeth; Seras remains utterly unaffected, and instead offends him further by pinching his cheek, " _Miss Victoria!"_

He slaps her hand away, not that she really cares. "Hmm…  _oh! I got it!"_ She leans down a little, just enough to whisper in his ear. She can tell by the expression on his face when she pulls back that he's insulted.

"Absolutely not. I'm not a bloody child! What do you take me for?!"

"Oh,  _come on!_ You're telling me you never thought about such things? Not even  _once?_ "

" _No!_ "

"You little liar."

He sputters indignantly, "That is quite  _enough_  Seras; I've had it up to  _here_  with your nonsensical dribble. I'm not doing such  _things._ "

" _Come on!_ Don't be such a bloody sourpuss! You could use your wires; not enough to actually cause damage, of course. Maybe we could—"

"Seras Victoria, I said  _no,_ " both are near nose to nose, one glaring and the other grinning. "I said  _no_  and that's the  _end_ of discussion!" And he intends it with every fiber of his being. "There's absolutely no way I'm going to do  _any_ of it; I refuse to do so, and  _you can't. Make. Me."_

**( &. )**

"I can't believe you made me do this." He's panting, irritated at having to hide around the corner of the hallway. It was  _chaos_ for the two custodians and armed guards. Despite this predicament and his apparent annoyance, amusement curls his lips.

Seras doesn't quite pick up on it though; her eyes are peered over the corner, witnessing the unfolding anarchy. "I didn't make you do anything, Walter; you kept telling me you wouldn't, and when I conceded, you took it as a challenge and then made  _me_ do it too." Simply put, they had set up traps for the poor bystanders of the mansion, excluding Integra and Alucard, of course. When Seras had suggested it, she had something more innocent in mind; like a bucket of water on top of the door, or a slingshot with a pie to the face when someone turned a corner. But Walter being… well,  _himself,_ decided to make the traps more sophisticated, more suited for  _vampire_ hunting. She didn't even know, exactly, how or  _why;_ all she was able to register was than more than five of the Hellsing staff's ankles and limbs were tangled, table and glassware was broken and, more than likely,  _property_ was to be replaced.

This had  _not_ what she had in mind when she told him they should do some pranks.

To her astonishment, the little bastard is actually  _chuckling._ She blinks, utterly shocked. "Though, I must admit; this was more fun than I had anticipated." He pulls her away by the wrist, and they make a dash from the scene. When they're a good distance away from the damage, he laughs. A  _real, belly-aching_ laugh!

Seras sputters, "Y-you!  _I—_ How could you—?!  _This is_ _ **not**_ _what I meant and you know it!_ What's Sir Integra going to say?!" she hisses, "How are you seriously going to tell her that you  _misbehaved_ and caused a good handful of the staff distress?!  _The wall is sliced to bits!"_

He shrugs. "I don't know what  _you're_ going to say," he clarifies, and shrugs — _and she sputters even more—_ "After all,  _you_ were in  _charge_ of me. I don't think Sir Integra is going to like that you  _let_ your baggage run around causing mischief. After all, I am  _just_ a child, Miss Victoria." The cheeky little bastard…  _no,_ _ **man,**_ _grins_ at her.

" _Why you little—!"_ So she does what's sensible, and locks him into a hold with her arm over his neck. She drags him backwards, and despite his very human appearance, he presents to be a physical challenge despite her own enhanced abilities. "That would be the first and  _last_ time I ever try to bond with you! You're going to tell Sir Integra  _everything!_  Now  _come along quietly damnit!"_

" _Get off me! Bloody—"_ he  _bites_ her,  _literally bites her!_ "I'm just an innocent,  _adorable_ child, remember?! I wanted to find a  _cure_!"

"Don't blame this on me!" He swears at her, and Seras goes red with humiliation and anger. They struggle against one another and end up tumbling on the floor; how does  _one_ measly fifteen year old  _child_ even compare to her strength?! What the hell!? " _Stop resisting me; you are in such big trouble!"_

A voice cuts in, "...Oh,  _Walter..."_ They both freeze mid-action; his teeth sinking in to her forearm, a hand pulling her hair, her hand yanking on his collar near choking him, and another hand on his forehead attempting to get him off. Their eyes meet frantically, and the panic sets in. Because that's Alucard's voice. "You misbehaved," he doesn't sound  _sad_ at the prospect at all; in fact, the Count sounds delighted.

But after a moment, Seras looks smug and  _harrumphs_ haughtily in Walter's direction. "What did I say? You're totally going to get it now!" she hisses.

" _Seras._ Don't think you're scott-free either; you were to be  _in charge_ of Walter. He is just a child now."

 _Eep!_ Now Walter looks smug, "Who's in trouble again?"

It's like Alucard is hearing everything they are saying, despite not even being close to them or even  _looking_ at them. He probably does. "The dear lady of the manor has asked me to fetch  _both_ of you."

They gulp and slowly peel away. "We need to get out of this hallway." Seras hisses out, trying to catch her breath.

"To bloody hell with that, we need to get  _out of this house!"_ he whispers back, "Come on, I know a way out." The logical side in her wants to argue, but the goosebumps on her flesh and the prospect of having Integra scold her is enough to make her cooperate with him.

It doesn't exactly end well for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was ridiculous and fun to write. There's going to be about two more chapter for the 'time' installment, which I will try and get to work on. These are too fun to write.


	6. misery (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gifted and tributed to the lovely Fan_Fiction_Junkie; thank you for the inspiration on this #ANGST tho...

**summary:** _"_ _Did you think I would_ ** _forget_** _?_   _Are you ashamed_ _of it_ _?_ _Or are you ashamed you want to do it again_ _as I am now_ _?_ _"_   _— #Seras/Walter #Dark!Walter_

* * *

**serendipitous**  
_**[ 30 day prompt challenge ]  
** _ _**misery (I)**_

 **IT HAPPENED JUST** once; somewhere just a little after The Wild Geese arrived, and just before the attacks on London.

She doesn't exactly remember the details that served as the prelude to the actual session, Seras just remembered it happened. Sometimes, she wishes it was under dire circumstances; perhaps they were drunk, or she was heartbroken, or she was aroused and needed an outlet or vice versa, or perhaps something just even a little  _less_ cliché. But it was from a more or less cliché set of circumstances; cheesy and stupid, the kind of thing one found in romance erotica. She was at the cusp of nineteen, barely teetering at the age of twenty, a month away, even; he was a seventy something year old man. It shouldn't have come about as an option, it should have happened even less, but it did. She's not sure, to this day,  _how,_ but it did. As it was,  _one thing came after the other,_ as most would describe their sexual encounters with random strangers; it hadn't been that different, odd if anything. She would have expected curious, roaming hands on her person from a nice boy her age, or even a 'bad boy' she'd sometimes day dream about; he'd be inexperienced or perhaps just a little bit more so than her, and it would be awkward and  _new_.

But she had gotten the opposite, instead. She'd gotten meticulous, experienced hands, withered with age and sharpened by years of combat; she didn't feel as much dread as she initially thought she would have, he was too kind and mindful of her inexperience to let her feel a fool. It was almost painfully slow, not at all rushed or clumsy, and it was careful and sweet. It was also scandalous and  _wrong_ … she kept telling herself that over and over throughout the whole thing. Even keeping in mind his age, his wrinkles and graying hair; it hadn't worked, in fact, it even served to amplify the scandal, and in turn, her desire. It wasn't exaggerated or even trashy either; looking back, it only made sense that he wouldn't let it take such a turn. He was too  _sophisticated_ to have her first, memorable time be in a hallway or potentially risque scenery where anyone could walk in. They'd done it in the comfort of his bedroom, on the wall nearing his door; she'd forgotten how she ended up there in the first place. She was giving him something, or perhaps went in to ask him for some maintenance help on her  _Harkonnen;_ she remembered feeling particularly shitty at her current state. Nothing too specific; it was as dumb as a nightmare she had about her parents, of all things. He caught on to that. Small talk turned into amicable conversation, and amicable conversation turned into comfort.

The rest was history.

The thought that never ceased to surprise her though, was that she didn't mind it,  _still didn't,_ and wouldn't taken the night back if she had the option to. Walter hadn't been strange about it either; there was nothing he wasn't elegant or gentlemanly about, and for that she was grateful, especially when they parted ways. Neither cried or yelled at the other for the  _sinful_ act; they faced it like adults and mutually agreed it was better they never spoke of it again. It never happened; he'd been nice to her till the very last moment of it too. Did men usually say  _goodnight_ while kissing a woman's hand as she left? She didn't know, and it made her feel her embrace to him beforehand was inadequate. She also had a feeling he didn't exactly regret it either, if the wicked glint in his eyes were any indication. Part of her had hoped, though, that one of them would break that streak; she would try to steal a glance or two, but ever the butler, ever the retainer, he gave nothing away. He was nice enough, but it made her feel… childish. Was this what she would often hear in the women's locker as a cadet? When guys just left you  _hanging_ after they got what they wanted? That was what made her step back and withdraw ever so; she'd always wanted to bring it up again despite the mutual agreement. But then Pip happened…

And then the war happened.

It had all happened so  _fast_ ; so ridiculously fast, she had no time to process who she used to be or how she ended up as a  _vampira_ employed under the Hellsing. Pip saved her and she'd gotten a new arm; she was stronger than ever and she was her own fully fledged vampire, having no need for her former Sire any longer. And then Walter happened. His betrayal to Hellsing. To them. To  _her._ Flashes of that encounter went through her mind; she couldn't muster anything more than a "Take care," and she was devastated, and perhaps touched, when he replied tenderly in turn. She was intent on killing The Major herself, made it her sole objective. She fought the Nazi werewolf and Seras Victoria was  _invincible_ and out for blood. Alucard almost disappeared too, and it was almost too much for her…  _almost._ Because not long after, she isn't sure  _how_ or  _why_ , but things changed; her former master wasn't disappearing, and Walter wasn't dying. The Nazi and Iscariot were fallen, Alucard's familiars were pulling away, they were  _winning_ and The Major, like the coward, shot  _himself_ instead. Walter, who had formerly been crippling and near death as a fourteen year old, was  _progressing_ to the state he was initially presented as when he made light of his betrayal to them. In an uncharacteristic display of whatever familial remnants remained in Integra, she ordered Alucard to cease oncoming action; in turn, he regurgitated Schrodinger's contaminated blood, preventing is own demise and sparing Walter's life. But by then, Walter was long gone; it was up to the three of them alone to clean up the mess Millenium brought on.

They managed, somehow, without the butler. Seras pretended not to be hurt, did her best so as not to signal the fact of her previous mistake; nobody noticed, or rather, nobody bothered to. She went through the motions and tried to be happy at the bigger picture; the Nazis were  _gone_ and though the attack took  _too many_ lives away, they still won… which is a load of shit in her opinion, because nobody ever truly won in war. Not really. She tried hard not to think of where Walter might be, even though it was likely he was dead. Integra and Alucard didn't make a single mention of it. She also tried not to let their new closeness bother her, and pretended not to notice how… more  _intimate_ they seemed; not at all in a sexual way, but just… closer. Like they understood each other; Integra needed him, and she thought, just a bit too bitterly, so did Alucard. They needed each other; she would have probably found comfort in Pip for that, had she not already let his soul go on into the afterlife. She wasn't like her master in that regard; she refused to take that of which she didn't have permission to if it was someone she cared about. She would not hold him prisoner in the depths of her own mind; Pip didn't deserve that, despite how much he had nagged at her. She could tell he appreciated her kindness; it was a heartfelt goodbye, fulfilling, but sad all the same.

And she was left alone again.

 _Hmm,_ she thinks, bringing herself to the present and thanking the bartender for giving her tomato juice with a wedge of lemon,  _one might say he 'ghosted' me._ She likes to think Pip would have appreciated that play on words; would have probably called her lame for it, or cute. Or  _mon cher._ Her eyes almost water and she is grateful that her pink tinted sunglasses did well to hide her eyes; they aren't as classy or elegant as Alucard's, nor are they personally customized. She'd bought them for less than a pound around the corner. She had started to feel suffocated in the mansion; she needed to breathe. Turns out that's a little hard to do when the rest of the city looks like a depressive, post-apocalyptic hell-hole. Which it is, more or less. There are upsides to it; she doesn't need to hide so much, because everyone who could potentially see her is just… gone. Homes and establishments absolute decimated, the city only barely starting to pick itself up after six months; there's scarcely anyone walking around, and she wonders why that is. Had it not been for her unique situation, she would have left as a human, assuming she survived of course. Why people still chose to live here is horrible to think about. The bartender, when she peeks to him, looks worn and gray; he isn't even  _old,_ but the heaviness weighs on his shoulders, she can tell. Looking behind her, the one or two other people can easily be mistaken for ghouls if she were to blur her vision. They only came here to attempt to wash away  _everything._

It weighs on all of them.

She is content with touching the edge of her glass. Tomato juice, along with wine, were the only things her newly-adjusted body could really stomach properly. She takes ginger sips, enough so that she doesn't recoil at the taste anymore, and tries not to let yet another depressive episode wash over her. Her thoughts inevitably turn to Walter, and her fists clench under the table. The bartender mistakes her facial expression as one of sickness or nausea, and slides over some water. She thanks him for it, but doesn't take a sip.

Just then, the sound of the door to the bar course through her ear; she doesn't turn, nor does she really take the time to fully appreciate or analyze who walks in. She blames the familiar-sounding steps on her paranoia, and the familiar-scent on her gloominess; not  _once_ does she bother to look up when those footsteps make a full  _stop_ all of a sudden, and then continue on their path after nearly a minute. She doesn't do any of this because it doesn't  _occur_ to her what possibilities arise. She's too engulfed in her own mind, her own thoughts,  _her own world,_ to really pay attention to her surroundings. Chin in palm, eyes glazed over, form hunched over; it's only when she  _hears_ that voice that she almost knocks over her own glass.

"Whiskey neat," it was only two simple words, but it knocked her whole world on its axis. Seras assumes she tenses quite visibly, because after the bartender serves his new guest his order, he looks to her with a raised brow. He asks her if she needs… water, or something, and it takes everything in her power to not turn  _that_ way.

Her jaw clenches, and her gulp is painful. "...No, thank you," perhaps he also mistakes her tone for annoyance, because he steps away almost hastily. Her fingers drum against the counter, and though she has no need for breath, one can't help but shakily make its' way out of her chest. She's antsy now, chest heavy and about to explode. Logically, she knows she needs to turn him in to her master… but for what, exactly? What are they going to do to him? He's already lost  _so much._ Her senses are high alert now, and she can  _smell_ him; it's definitely him. She is a proud Brit, damn it, and she  _refuses_ to give any indication that his presence makes such an impact. Her gaze has already turned more toward the exit,  _away_ from him. Why is he still  _here?_ Why hadn't he left upon sight of her?  _What the bloody hell?!_ But she stays still, and she waits. Surely he wouldn't be mad to  _stay._ Not with her in the room.

She takes another sip of her tomato juice, and suddenly feels silly for using a bendy straw. Faintly, she hears his fingers drumming against the counter, and inexplicably feels a wave of irritation;  _is he mocking me?_ Perhaps if she were to just…  _ignore_ his presence, pretend he  _isn't_ Walter, then— except that's hard to do when it's clear that both of them are severely and utterly uncomfortable. She breaks first, and moves away; with her luck, it's pouring outside. Vampires  _hate_ water, and she's most certainly no exception. Seating herself, back facing the counter, on a rather cozy booth with a dim light above, she exhales a slight, shuddering breath. She can feel the ghost of her heartbeat booming through her chest, trying to keep her nerves in check. Seras suddenly feels  _very_ tired. And angry. Because no matter where she goes, she is destined not to have any peace. It's like God hates her; she closes her eyes and listens to the rain.

A soft  _—clank!_ snaps her out of her reverie, and upon seeing her glass refilled with tomato juice, she sighs wearily. "Thank you," she murmurs, "But you didn't have to. I swear I was going to pay for it and—" Except, when she looks up, she sees she is  _not_ talking to the bartender. She is talking to Walter. Her words turn to ash on her tongue, and fingers, hand and lip all curl inward automatically. The light does sinister things to his newly rejuvenated face; awful, morbid things. Beautiful ones too. She glares at him. He sits without even asking her permission, right across from her. Like they're  _together._ This time, she has no option to pretend he isn't there, especially when he's  _looking_ at her head on. His knee bumps into hers and she pulls away like he's acid, unable to fight the slight warmth on her cheeks. He notices this, she knows he does, but merely clasps his hands and rests his chin there. Seras is beyond undignified, so much so that she can't even conjure proper words for a second. "W-what the  _bloody_ —?!" she hisses.

"I'm not here to fight, Seras." She can't decipher his quiet tone; reserved, if anything. Her vision swings back to the front, the bartender goes to the back and leaves them alone.

His questions rub her the wrong way.  _Very_ wrong. " _No._ Don't… don't  _do_ that. Don't pretend like we're old friends catching up;  _don't_ pretend that you didn't—" her voice is more at normal volume now, realizing the patrons of the bar have already long gone.

"Aren't we though? Technically speaking."

She blinks at his audacity, his shamelessness; she wants to be  _furious,_ but the fact that he's showing no emotion other than… well,  _nothing_ but a subdued reservedness is confusing her to no end. It would be easier to be angry and loathing if he was being sarcastic, cold and mocking. He isn't even smiling; his eyes look dead and  _drained._ But she doesn't trust him. She doesn't know him. " _Technically_ speaking, you  _betrayed_ Hellsing; so  _no,_ I don't think we're  _anything."_

The small shot-glass he's held this whole time is twirled with the ice in it, filling the slight silence. But it's only when his eyes harden just a pinch does she realize that he doesn't appreciate her words. "I betrayed  _Hellsing._ You have nothing to do with it, and frankly, it isn't any of your business where my allegiance lies."

Her jaw clenches and her glare grows venomous. " _My_ allegiance happens to be with Hellsing; their business is  _my_ business. I don't care who you think you betrayed, but regardless, you betrayed  _me._ " When the words spill, she realizes how dangerous the meaning behind them really is because she's just revealed something that was never meant to be spoken out in the open.

Walter's eyes widen just a fraction, and his whole body stills. Her own breath hitches, and she waits for something she doesn't even know about. But then he ruins that too. "So, then..." he chuckles under his breath, continuing to twirl the ice in his glass, "The stray orphan thinks she's part of the family after only a handful of months because a murderous vampire took a  _liking_ to her? On a whim, no less..." He shakes his head, as if pitying her.

The sheer strength of her grip cracks her glass, enough to cause damage but not enough to truly break. She bristles and crouches low on the seat, leaning towards him; a vivid threat as her teeth are bared. "Alright, what the  _hell_ is your problem? What the fuck do you think you're  _doing?_ Alucard  _isn't_ here nor is Master Integra. If you meant to deliver a message to them via me, then I suggest you hurry along with it, traitor."

He wipes his mouth irritably, as if sickened by her presence. "I already  _said_ I have  _no_ interest in Hellsing," he speaks lowly, dangerously.

"So what? You're talking to the  _stray orphan_ for laughs?  _Ha ha, I shagged her once, let's see if I can do it again?_ You're out of your bloody mind," her mind says  _punch face_ but her instincts scream  _back up_ ; the two conflict vividly with each other and so she is left gripping the table instead. She catches him off guard, she can tell; his emotional disposition isn't hard to read, but what  _is_ hard is his  _reasoning._ They could never figure out the  _why._

After a stretch of silence, he speaks. "Is  _that_ what you think I'm here for?" as if to ask,  _you really think you're that desirable?_

Her eye twitches, but she refuses to feel a fool. "I'm not  _stupid._ I don't think so highly of myself. But you're not exactly saying anything else to defend your case here, are you?" He doesn't respond, and her heart speeds up, if possible, at the implications of this.  _All_ of it. After more silence, she bangs her fist against the table; he doesn't even flinch, and she  _shouldn't_ be the one who's flustered. " _I'm not_ ** _fucking_** _you."_ That comes out a little louder than she would have liked, and she has to do a double take to make sure nobody is around to hear.

Finally, Walter smiles; not unlike the smile he gave her outside the zeppelin. The fact that he looks almost relaxed irritates her… and confuses her. "Is that what's bothering you? To be honest, I'm flattered you still… hold that in your mind."

 _...what?_ Her thoughts do not betray her expression, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows slightly raised. " _Excuse_ me…?" He doesn't seem to hear her, or rather care for her inquiries, because now  _he's_ the one leaning forward and  _damn it, that is **not** how things are supposed to be going and—_

His expression and tone are much too serious for her liking, "Do you regret that night?"

This had  _not_ been what she'd been expecting to talk about with  _The Angel of_ _Death._ She was supposed to be rid of any notions of their forbidden tryst by telling him she  _wouldn't_ ; he expressed  _pity_ and perhaps a lingering of disgust. Why is continuing to poke? "What game are you playing?" she tries to consider the implication of this conversation, and more stiffly she adds; "I'm  _not_ going to—"

"Do you  _regret_ what we did?" Why does he say it like he  _needs_ to know? As if it's  _important?_ Did he seriously just  _swing_ by after six months just to ask her? The whole thing seems borderline ridiculous. If he wanted it so bad, he could have just paid a—

"I have a feeling," she breathes, a sudden thought occurring to her, "...that  _you_ do." He says nothing, and her chest feels hollow at his lack of response. Her hand runs through her face, and she shakes her head;  _what the bloody hell are we even talking about? Are we seriously talking about fucking? Seriously? After everything? With all that's happened?_ She voices this out loud. "Seriously, Walter? _"_ Doesn't he want to know about Sir Integra? The woman he's raised as a daughter? Or his nemesis? Or  _anything?_ "Surely you know how idiotic this sounds… you just… you  _literally_ called me a—" She can't finish the thought;  _what am I even saying?_

He seems to share her feelings, because he doesn't look too thrilled either. "I… I apol—"

" _Stop._ Just…  _stop._ You don't have to…  _pretend._ You're not Hellsing's retainer anymore, and you're not fighting alongside either. So  _stop;_ I don't… I may not have known you long enough as Alucard or Sir Integra, but I know  _enough_ now."

His eyes narrow, annoyed. "Oh? Enlighten me."

Her eyes are leveled with his; she  _isn't_ scared. "I never truly you, did I? I was… I wanted to believe your new attitude was because of Millenium. But it never was, was it? You… I don't  _know_ you." He's just as bloodthirsty as Alucard; he'd been a wicked child. Nobody just went to war unscathed, and she had no reason to doubt Sir Integra and Alucard when they let it slip that Walter C. Dornez was always a spiteful thing. Spiteful, bloodthirsty, sadistic, and power-hungry even. The kind of person that only Hellsing would harbor. She thinks of Pip, and though he was a nice man in appearance, he'd also made it clear that he was no saint; it took her a long time to come to terms with that, even if it had bled from his own mouth.

How could she forget Walter's expression when fighting Jan? That wasn't just being content with victory; that was  _enjoyment._ It makes her sick.

She tells him this; he seems unimpressed. "Is that it? Does it  _scare_ you?" He seems to be conflicted between  _pride_ and even reluctance, if she has to guess; nobody donned the title  _The Angel of Death_ without enjoying it. "Does it  _frighten_ you that someone you held in high regard turned out to be  _filth?"_ There's mocking there, but there's a little self-loathe and awareness too. Maybe even a challenge.

She considers this and slowly shakes her head. "It…  _saddens_  me. And, to answer your question… I… didn't..." she adds quietly, "At least, not before I learned the truth. After I did, it just became another disappointment." He says nothing, but she sees the whitening of his knuckles. "Walter… why are you here talking to me? What do you want?"

"I believe… I just wanted to see a familiar face. I thought we'd… parted on  _somewhat_ amicable terms, Seras." A poor reasoning if she's ever heard and she feels stupid for wanting to cry. "Perhaps I was wrong."

"That's affirmative," his head hangs at her response. "So I suppose that leaves us at a standstill, doesn't it?" She sips the last of her drink, wiping her mouth gingerly. "I won't… say anything. This never happened."

"I'm sure I can manage that a second time." That churns her stomach, but she doesn't respond.

She attempts to pay for her little kid drink; the bartender tells her it's not necessary, at all. Looking into the poor lad's eyes, she knows it to be true, and shakily pockets her change. She thanks him for the billionth time that night, and finally leaves. Not once does she look back to Walter on the lone booth. But the weight doesn't leave her chest; not even for a moment and makes a firm decision not to arrive back to the mansion. Because she needs a damn good cry, and she can only do that in her own apartment. She still paid rent for it just so she could have a gateway, and it had managed to somehow remain whole in the aftermath. There was, unfortunately, no more landlady to pay anymore. The manor was her place of living, but it wasn't her  _home._ Her home was her parents, her home was with those she cared about, her  _home_ was when she felt fufilled and whole, her  _home_ was with— She almost gasps at the intrusive thoughts, but she commands  _herself_ mentally to not cry just yet.  _Wait until I get home. Wait until I get home._  The entirety of her walk had taken less than five minutes though it feels like more.

… especially when she's too acutely aware of a  _presence_ hovering her space bubble just before she crosses the street. The skies are seemingly brewing up another storm, and he steps out of the shadow like a demon, and only stops when he's a few feet away. She feels a slight panic at being caught, which is ridiculous because the streets are empty, truly. There is nothing surrounding them but open air and promises of showers. Why he chose to follow her up until now remains obfuscated to her. His expression is as still as stone. For the first time in six months, Seras looks at Walter;  _really_ looks at him up close; the booth had been too dimly lit, and she had been too focused on the eyes. The first time she saw him in this form, she couldn't appreciate the fine details. He truly looks like a whole, different person. Perhaps in another world, she would have even called him  _handsome._ His eyes are the most striking; they aren't blood red, but almost a light violet… gray perhaps? Blue? She cannot tell. Despite the time that has gone by, despite his possible stress, he looks pretty bloody well, and she hates him for it.

It takes a long time for either of them to break the silence. "You need to step out of the way," the voice that comes out of her is not her own; it is that of someone older and wiser, a capable and adult woman.

He analyzes her, eyes flickering from head to toe; what he's looking at, she doesn't know. There's nothing to see underneath her gray trench coat. "Yes, I'm sure you're quite busy." The voice that comes out of him is not of snark or sarcasm or even aloofness; it's unsure and tired. They're both so tired.

"I'm not interested..." she says curtly.

He takes offense to that, and raises a brow, "...Of?"

" _Any_ of it. I didn't  _see_ you and you didn't  _see_ me. We're not speaking right now."

Much to her surprise… his lips become soft in movement; they  _quirk_ in a remnant of a wistful smile. "Now, where have I heard that before…?"

Her gut churns, cheeks grow warm and her ire burns brighter, "I don't care what you think. Make yourself scarce before I change my mind," to show him this, she summons her arm, allowing the silky tendrils to encompass the space between them. He doesn't seem the slightest bit intimidated. "I will only say this once,  _traitor_ , so pay attention; I'm not going to ask  _how_ you're still alive, how you have your limbs intact, why you've followed me, or even whether or not any of Millenium's possible survivors are still alive.  _I don't care._ All I want is for you. To.  _Move._ " She doesn't know exactly what bit makes him clench his jaw, or even if it's her attitude that seeps under his skin, nor does she care to.

Agonizingly slow, he moves two steps to the left and even  _bows_ as the butler does.

She lets out a shaking exhale, and whispers under her breath, "I hope you  _rot._ "

The look in his eye when he looks up is a dangerous one, but she's too tired, and continues on walking. His eyes burn her back, and she lets blood-tears water in the edge of her eyes. She mentally counts down from three, her instincts anticipating something that even  _she_ doesn't realize…

 _Three;_ she steps over the concrete stairs leading to her door.

 _Two;_ red blurs her vision and streak down her cheeks. The clouds become full and gray read to pour.

 _One;_ as her hand gently pushes the door open, and she is shoved inside.


	7. misery (2)

**serendipitous**  
_**[ 30 day prompt challenge ]  
** _ _**misery (II)** _

**WHEN HE HELD** her like this for the first time, he'd been old and still loyal to Hellsing, or well, pretending to be; he'd been gentle and kind, meticulous and detail-oriented to her person. Even when he held against the side of the door, not at all different to  _right now,_ he'd been mindful of her position.

" _We don't have to do this, Miss Victoria,"_ he'd said, his voice just right above her ear, sending tingling warmth to the nape of her neck. He hadn't seemed reluctant to pull away, even when he made it clear the choice was all hers.  _"If you feel at all uncomfortable, please, let me know..."_ his free hand roamed her clothed navel, eager to get to work.  _"We can stop..."_

" _Walter… please, just..."_ she closed her own eyes, reveling in the touch, not caring how  _wrong_ it was or what the possible moral consequences were. She didn't even care  _who_ moved first or who initiated what; she  _wanted_ this. She  _enjoyed_ his touch, genuinely.  _"Please don't stop… please… I want this… with you…"_ That's all it had taken at the time, and they both plunged into new, dangerous territory. It was a fond memory for her.

And so, being held like this by  _him_ again, by this new, young and  _different_ Walter  _—though, really he wasn't that different; he was just better at hiding it back then—_ tainted whatever fondness she held in that memory. His tall figure encompasses her space, his large hand hovering over her navel, eager to get to work, but…  _waiting_ for something. She'd even warrant he's waiting for  _permission,_ but it's too ridiculous of a thought to consider; he already put his hands on her and had her cornered like this. His warm breath lightly wafts on her ear and neck, the slight tinge of alcohol just brushing behind. They are both unsure, evident in their slight breathing. It had happened so fast, and a small part of her  _knew_ it was going to happen, but she chose to turn the other way; her heart is beating wildly. It isn't until his hand moves to the inside of her thigh, palm laying flat against her tingling skin that she comes to, and  _realizes_ exactly what is going on. "You need to  _get off!_ " she hisses violently, but makes no movement otherwise to get him off herself.

If possible, he stills even more so… but then his grip tightens. "...I don't think I will," he whispers right back, and something  _like_ dread falls in the pit of her stomach… but so does anger.

"So,  _Angel of Death,_ you've truly fallen so  _low_ that you would succumb to taking a woman by force just to  _feel_ something?" Her shadow tendril serving as an arm begins to grow in size, spreading thin around them, surrounding him if he were to make any more movements. To his credit and her surprise, Walter doesn't even  _move._   _It figures,_ she thinks,  _he fought Alucard after all._ What's one measly little arm to him anyway? Child's play.

"Always with the questions..." Despite his voice being dangerous and even eerie, the hand on her person is  _gentle,_ just as a lover's would be. "But you're not entirely off base.." His lips roam on the edge of her outer ear, just barely so; it's enough to make her toes curl and she scolds herself for even enjoying such a thing in the first place. But she keeps herself in check. "After all, we've been through this once already, Seras..."

"Be  _quiet,_ " she bites out, "Don't you  _dare_ bring that up again; don't you  _dare_ taint that memory for me..." Perhaps Walter hadn't expected for her to admit that it was a  _fond_ memory; indeed, he'd thought it repulsed her. But it doesn't matter;  _none_ of it does because Seras doesn't want it to. Not with  _him._ She feels his wires wrapping on her ankles and wrists; "Are you  _serious?!"_ she is not panicked so much as she is gravely disappointed. "Have you  _really—_ Are you  _truly_ going to do this to me, Walter?  _Like this?! This_ is how you want it?  _This is what will satisfy you?"_

He roughly pulls her against his chest, hand on her breast, and she wants to bite his stupid chin off. "Would you be  _quiet?_ Stop being so—"

"You're about to  _violate me_ in my own  _home,_ and you expect me to be  _quiet_?!" She attempts to yank herself away; it's a half hearted attempt, she knows this, they both do, but it doesn't stop either of them in their efforts. For every push, he pulls; he holds her tight, but he does nothing more than that. "How  _low_ have you fallen? Truly? To take me like this…?" Part of her is in pure disbelief… the other is, despite herself,  _curious._ Not intrigued, but she  _wonders._ The wires cut through her skin, breaking the tender flesh and causing streaks of red to drip down from her wrist and ankles to the floor. Her shoulders sag, "... _God,_ why…  _why_ are you… like this? Out of everything,  _everything_ you could possible be… why  _this?"_ The red streaks on her face have long dried on her face, making the skin cracked and crisp, but her eyes, her  _expression,_ breaks anyway. Her head hangs low for only a moment before she is turned sharply around, heavy hands gripping her shoulders as his larger, denser frame nearly swallows her in his hunched position. It takes her a moment to realize that her body moves in tandem to his; her shoulders are vibrating. He's  _shaking._ For a moment, she believes it's from anger based on the curl of his lips and his clenched eyes. The fabric of her coat are distorted in his grip, and it's only when he opens his eyes, his right hand releasing her to shakily hover her cheek does she realize that he's not angry…

...he's in  _anguish._

It's almost like he's fighting something inside. She wonders for a wild moment, selfishly  _hopes,_ that he's under control; that the sarcastic 'truth' of his betrayal had been reality. His nose and lips settle on the crook of her neck, just barely there; he releases a shuddering, almost pained breath… Seras tries to call out his name, but she cannot even conjure words. She feels something  _wet_ prickling at her skin, and wonders if it's his tongue  _—except it's not because she_ _vividly_   ** _remembers_** _what that fe_ _els_ _like—_ but it's too warm,  _too slight…_ they are mere pearls of salt and water, the slight warmth nearly scorching her. "It's… the only  _thing_ I  _can_ feel..." his voice is so raspy, so  _pained_ that she almost doesn't recognize it. Rough fingers run through her hair too painfully, she has to move her head to follow his movements. He says it again, more desperate, more pained, more distraught… his lips are chapped against her skin. She feels awful for becoming aroused under his rough touch; she has no time to decipher the true meaning of his words, because he's peppering her slight and sloppy kisses to her neck, but his hands are too rough,  _too harsh,_ and the wires  _hurt._ "I can't  _feel…_  I thought… I thought I  _could_ but I  _can't_ —" His thumb digs into the slope of her cheeks, just where the jaw meets prying her mouth open.

He's literally admitted to her that the only way he can feel much of anything at all is to take her by force; he's willing to go so far. Before he can get any closer to her lips, she turns away, "Walter…  _stop it!"_ She can't push him away effectively at first; her non-shadow hand will get cut open, and she hasn't mastered the healing factor of her master just yet. Her shadow tendril, when not in precise focused control, grows in disarray; it had proven to be so effective in combat, but it can't do much of anything if her mind isn't straight. "I don't…  _want_ this… not like  _this. Mmf—"_

His hold her on her jaw tightens, and she is left with her mouth open painfully hence her cry. His eyes are livid now, his resolve firm. "I can't  _feel._ Don't you  _understand?"_ he hisses, "I thought such impulses were beneath me… that damn Doctor couldn't do  _shit_ right. I'm… my body isn't… my  _mind_ is in such disarray..." She wishes she could fix him; kiss all his wounds and make his hurt go away. It's not even the fact that it isn't her responsibility; she just…  _can't._ He doesn't seem to understand that.

"...do you really think  _this_ will fix it? That it'll make you feel any more than you can now? Like how you felt after fighting Alucard?" She's hit below the belt, but she's getting desperate too, hopeful even. "If you just wanted something like this, no doubt you could have just…  _find_ someone else to—" but then she remembers what he said not more than about an hour ago;  _I believe… I just wanted to see a familiar face. I thought we'd… parted on somewhat amicable terms, Seras._ He needed  _—wanted?—_ her. Not even because of familiarity… but because of  _fondness._ He holds her in that regard, even after he's been put through. Even after his supposed morality has been stripped, or at least the majority of it. "I can't  _fix_ you, Walter..."

His eyes crumple at the weight of something that she doesn't have to deal with, only further confirming her suspicions. He almost looks like a child in that moment, and it disgusts her as much as it intrigues and  _breaks_ her. "I need to  _try..."_  He's been recreating their tryst from that one night, and if she doesn't cooperate then… well.

Something ugly rears its head, " _Why haven't you offed yourself then_ _if you're that_ ** _bloody_** _miserable_ _?!"_ She's glaring,  _trying so hard not to_ ** _cry_** _,_ and though her resolve is not firm, it is starting to take shape… until he speaks, until his gaze becomes focused, and he gulps.

"...I've  _tried,"_ he whispers. Realizations hits her like a brick;  _he cannot die._

She is left speechless for almost a minute, but she refuses to give in. "No… no, don't  _do_ that! You  _don't_ get to play victim, you  _don't_ get to physically  _subdue_ me and— and—  _tell me you're taking me and act like_ ** _you're_** _the one wh-who's—"_ they both know this to be true; when Seras voices it, they feel it in their core that she's more than right. He continues his scorching ministrations to her neck, closer to the shell of her ear, to the corner of her lips. His hands are still too rough, still too desperate. Telling him to stop would do nothing; the worst part of it is that a small, subdued part of her  _doesn't_ want him to stop. She could easily rip apart with her shadow arm  _right now,_ even as it is now. He's distracted enough, the wires are starting to feel more like a nuisance than an actual threat now that he isn't too focused on keeping her in a tight posture. His fingers are  _shaking,_ fumbling to undo the buttons of her coat. But… there's another small, twisted part of her… that  _likes_ to see him like this;  _she likes to see him suffer_ and it would be so  _easy_ to just— "Are you ashamed of it?"

He stops, unsure and almost as if  _frightened of himself,_ his breaths are shallow,  _so close to her lips._ "...wh-what are you—"

"Why are you  _shaking?"_  Seras isn't even asking to get out of it; no, she long stopped her half-baked efforts to untangle her body from the wires. "You never denied my question to you in the pub;  _did_ you deny what we did that night?" She must have caught  _something,_ because he's looking at her like he… doesn't really know what to say. Like he's been  _caught._ "Or is it  _more_ than that? You say you don't  _feel_ anything; so why do you  _shake?_ Are you ashamed of what you're about to do? Or are you ashamed you want to do it again as I am now? Tied up, hurt, and  _unwilling." Ah,_ she thinks as his adam's apple quakes,  _so it's guilt then, is it?_

And just as she thought she'd turn the tables, he flips it back to her. His eyes grow steely, and his mouth thins. "I wouldn't say you're  _unwilling,_ Seras," he looks more composed than he sounds, and because of that, her eyebrow twitches, "Not as much as you'd like to think you are. We both remember that night. I know I do and quite vividly. Are you sure  _I'm_ the one that feels shame? I believe," his thumb pad tilts her chin just barely so, just to have her a millimeter closer, " _you're_ the one that feels shame in wanting it,  _especially_ with how I am now."

 _Bastard._ She leans her head back, goosebumps tingling along her chest as her eyes don't waver from his in challenge. She takes in a breath  _—disappointment, anger, anguish—_  "Will you give me a choice?" she asks quietly, more curious than anything on his answer.

He considers her question; the chip has done many things to his psyche. Too many things. Horrid things, ugly things and wretched ones. But some… he's enjoyed thus far. Even as he suffers, he cannot help the freedom that comes along with being changed so drastically. He also cannot deny the suffering or the misery. "No, I don't believe I will," but Walter always gave himself away much too easily; he always wore his heart on his sleeve, his emotions on display for the world to see. As a child, a young man, even in his elderly years, and now, as a cursed artificially made immortal. His words don't quite follow through…

—because the wires are being pulled away… and he's letting her go.

But Seras pulls him back; she hangs onto him like a baby monkey, and now it is her fingers that knead his head, treading through hair.  _"Don't…_  You don't get to—" is as much as she gets to say because his lips are on hers now. His monocle drops and her trench coat becomes undone. They commit another scandalous act that night; this time on the wall next to her door.

The rest is history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely sure how I feel about this chapter, but I couldn't think of much else it was going to end in fluff, which is something I mostly wanted to stay away from for the 'misery' prompt. Part 3 yay or nay?


	8. time (3)

**serendipitous  
** _**[ 30 day prompt challenge ]  
** _ **time (III)**

 **WHEN THEY TRIED** to round the corner on the other side of the long hallway, Alucard had been there looking at them like fresh meat. They  _ran,_ of course, much to his delight, and both were hauled by the collars to Sir Integra's office….  _wet_  and smelling of mud and grime, hair disheveled and askew, clothes torn and with soot smudges on their faces, respectively. Integra glared and rubbed her temples; she had them both on edge, despite them also getting into it in regards as tho  _who_ started it and  _who_ escalated it and  _what_ exactly happened and  _why—_

"This is ridiculous," he says, scoffing at the small television set. They were sentenced to  _room_ arrest; also kindly referred to as, being  _grounded._ Yes, both of them. Stuck in the abandoned recreation room downstairs; the only form of entertainment were old and foreign black and white films, none of which had them in high spirits. Walter glares disdainfully at the screen, and Seras, though tries to put on a brave face, flinches uncharacteristically at the cheap effects.

Her eyes tear away from the screen, glad to have an excuse to  _not_ be looking at the unfolding horrific scenes. "Perhaps you should have thought  _before_ pulling those stupid stunts." She hears a hiss before having a pillow thrown to her face; he hadn't even  _moved_ his  _head_. "All I  _said_ was to do  _harmless_ pranks;  _you_ were the one who went overboard!"

"Don't you bloody  _start_ with me; take responsibility. I was content with looking through the library. You got what you wanted," he glares at her before raising a brow, "… are you  _seriously_ getting frightened from this film?"  _Les Yeux Sans Visage;_ a french film about some crazed serial murdering surgeon attempting to  _fix_ his daughter's face by cutting the faces of other young women he'd promised to employ. If he recalled correctly, the film came… somewhere around his thirties, he only ever watched it once. It was just as unimpressive as it was back then; everybody thought it was  _so scary._ It helped that by then he'd been known as a Master Vampire Hunter, so such cheap effects didn't deter him in the slightest. " _Why_ are you getting  _scared?_ You've faced  _ghouls_  before," he doesn't know why this annoys him… and mildly amuses him.

Seras bites the inside of her cheeks, tearing her gaze from the young boy to the television; back and forth, back and forth, unable to decide which one she can stomach more. "I… I just  _don't_ like scary movies, alright?" she shifts uncomfortably, "And so  _what_ if I have? That's  _different_ ; it looks so…  _fleshy_ when he cuts her face like that."

"You've  _torn_ ghoul's faces before; with your  _bare hands_ no less," he drawls out, slower as if she hadn't understood, "And it's just  _rubber_ he's cutting through. How can this… You being scared makes absolutely  _no_ sense." Shaking his head, he resumes his attention to the screen before him; it's a  _chore,_ and after about ten minutes, his gaze keeps going to hers to observe hers at the 'scary' bits. Walter finds that he has to bite his lips so as not to laugh at her reactions; she flinches, bites her lips to drown out screams, clenches the cushions and rides up her shirt's collar to hide in. His fingers tap enthusiastically as she bites her own, and he gets a very wicked idea. He continues to observe for a few more moments, all the wire maneuvering just so that her arm and waist are more or less sitting almost comfortably against them, unknowingly tangled in his delicate trap. She clearly feels nothing as she hunches forward ever so slightly to take a better look at the screen. When the next scene cuts to a scream he pulls… and consequently her body almost catapults back and over her spot on the loveseat.

Her scream is such agonizingly beautiful revenge that he ends up laughing and falling on the floor clutching his stomach. Even as she screams his name, he can't help but laugh further. He can barely process the fact that she's red in the face, huffing and puffing and absolutely  _humiliated._ "That  _wasn't_ **nice!** I had a  _heart attack! What the **fuck** Walter?!"_

"You, you…!" he can't even  _breathe;_ her reaction was too over the top, too damn exaggerated and so very  _Seras,_ "You  _screamed_  bloody murder; you don't even  _have_ a functioning heart!" He doesn't see her expression, how even though she was absolutely undignified and  _humiliated_ and very cross, she manages to get infected by his contagious mirth; soon, she too laughs  _just_ a bit, before throwing a pillow as penance.

Of course he doesn't take that lying down. Along the way there was swearing, verbal attacks, jibes, and confusion at how they, the rigid, retainer of Hellsing and former policewoman, ended up being children throwing cushions back and forth. It had even gotten to the point where Seras had him in a secure hold until he cried out "Uncle!" per her demand; she can't stop laughing at his panting and red face. A young flustered Walter, she quickly surmises, makes for an easy target to laugh at, such a stark contrast to the calm and composed elder she's come to know. The lightheartedness of the situation does well to push back the strange circumstances of his unique situation.

Seras wipes the tears in her eyes as her laughter dies down, amiable silence grows between them, though it doesn't make the atmosphere just slightly less awkward. "Do you think they've found something out for this whole mess?" She's surprised when he gives off an annoyed huff, as if merely talking about the situation is annoying in of itself. They wordlessly and mutually agree that it would be better not to speak about it further.

Somehow, after watching a few more cheap, old films, Walter ends up sleeping on her shoulder. It's so bloody adorable that Seras doesn't bother removing him. Soon after, she falls asleep too just from the sheer boredom  _—and her refusal to watch any more horror films—_  and they end up just laying together on the couch, her forearms supporting her head and legs tucked, and a young Walter sprawled on her shoulders and back, using her as a giant pillow.

The problem comes when she wakes.

Because the very first thing she registers is the  _weight;_ he'd weighed much less than this and he was really digging into her back. Her eyes peel open and she intends to move away from the discomfort; she'd left her skirt and undershirt on as sleepwear, and Walter on her person is making her clothes rumple. Without looking, eyes still drunk with sleep, she puts a hand on his hair and it's…  _longer._ She turns her gaze to her source of discomfort, confused as to why she's touching  _long_ hair. She sees...  _ **not**  a teenager; not the pretty boy she was spending yesterday with— _her jaw goes slack. Seras blinks. Once. Twice. And then they travel down.

A handsome man is  _on top of her. Sleeping on top of her and head buried right above her chest and his **legs** are tangled with hers and—_

The Hellsing manor is woken up to a very shrill scream.


	9. misery (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The readers have spoken! Shout out to the fic Needing and Wanting by tenchi saz on adult-fanfiction. Beautiful and tender work that served as inspiration and even as the catalyst to writing the misery prompt in the first place. Third part here we go!
> 
> Happy Valentines Day :D

**serendipitous**  
_**[ 30 day prompt challenge ]  
** _ _**misery (III)** _

**IT WASN'T AT** all like the first time she did it with him. The first time, it was new for both of them; him for the lack of practice in a long time and her for it being her first time period. Seras had expected it to be at least similar, but she was wrong. Old Walter was slow, took his time, and  _if she were to be honest with herself,_ she'd been the one to do a handful of the work. Not because she didn't want to, but because he  _let_ her and apparently had the patience of a saint. Young Walter, what with his youth and energy back, was a whole lot different; truth be told, he  _overwhelmed_ her, and she wasn't entirely sure if because she in emotional disarray or because he really just had the upper hand. He'd been attentive and absolutely heated in his ministrations; he wouldn't let her own body process the immense reactions and pleasure before he was already starting on another task, and then another and then another. She wasn't the proudest to admit that he shagged her… pretty damn well. Thrice.

As he was thrusting into her, she recalled that one MI-5 agent, Harry Anders, had expressed interest in her. He was younger than Walter,  _still too old for her though,_ and his words had caught her completely off guard at the time.  _Christ,_ he said,  _If only I was twenty years younger._ There was irony in those words and her relationship with the old Hellsing butler… It was a random thought, but she couldn't make sense of it beyond the words and vaguely wondered how Anders would have reacted knowing what she was doing with someone well older than himself; what she  _had_ done.

She is unsure of how much time has passed, and she is also unsure if what happened  _—if her meeting with him in the first place in the pub—_ even happened in the first place. Perhaps this is just an elaborate, wanton delusion of hers borne from her own misery and desperation, a shameless desire that's only grown since their tryst and  _especially_ since his betrayal. She almost convinces herself that it's exactly just that, and that she ended up pleasuring herself in the solitude of her own home. She tries to convince herself that the lights were turned off because she was tired and wanted to nap, not because in their movement, when they were on the wall, her tailbone had slammed against it; a result of his growing excitement. The covers under her fingertips are old and smell of gun powder and death, the scent of London's massacre having sneaked past her small apartment's little barriers and it makes her eyes flutter open. The darkness isn't intangible for her anymore, so she sees perfectly clear. She can make out every crevice and crack on the ceiling above her. It's only when she turns slightly to the left that her stomach drops in apprehension.

Because he is there;  _of course_ he is.

His bare and toned backside would be an otherwise tantalizing sight that she could appreciate. Perhaps she'd even run her fingers through his undone hair, or something vaguely at all like those dumb cheesy romance books she's read once in a while. He really  _isn't_ a bad sight, if she is to be completely honest, but this isn't a romance novel, nor is it a dream. Not wanting to stare any more than necessary, she turns her gaze back to the ceiling suddenly very thankful that she doesn't have to breathe. She doesn't even want to make the slightest bit of noise to rouse…  _company_. Though, now that she puts her mind to it, she wonders why he hasn't left. Fingers twitching in anxiousness, she wonders what would be the best course of action; it's not like she can just start going about taking a shower or preparing fucking tea… at least, not without making noise, and the thoughts makes her more nervous than she wants to admit.  _Bloody bastard probably isn't even asleep either,_ eyebrows twitch at the thought, and she growls just barely under her breath. Grabbing her spare dress-shirt, thankfully laying just in her line of vision, from below the mattress, she sits upright and ruffles her messy blonde bed-hair. The mattress underneath inevitably moves with her and she winces,  _oh well… can't exactly help it._

She can always kick him out, but she doesn't have the energy to pick another fight. Towards the end, he'd been gentle is setting her down on the mattress, but she'd figured that he felt as awkward about the whole thing as she did, if his momentary pause had been any indication. In that small moment, she nearly pretended this was just a normal occurrence and that they were a couple who hadn't seen each other for a few days. The thought made her throat tighten in… something she couldn't place, so she quickly dismissed the notion at the time. She looks to her window, barely noticing that it's sprinkling and night is almost upon them; despite her having begun the process of a full-fledged vampire, she's been human for a longer amount of time, so she still isn't quite used to having such skewed sleeping needs. She almost considers settling back into the bed, and she  _almost_ concedes, but not one second after the thought occurs, she stills…

Because he's moving.

 _Stop it,_ she scolds herself; it's  _her_ home after all, she should  _not_ be feeling like going under her  _own_ bed or jumping out the window to  _hide._ The nervousness wracks under her skin, prickling like needles all over and she gives in by looking away before he could turn. The tense silence that engulfs the space makes her feel claustrophobic, and as she clenches her fists, she wonders how in the world it ever got to this point.

Unbeknownst to Seras, her suspicions were correct; Walter had never fallen asleep in the first place, unlike her. After they'd finished, he held her in place, trying to gather his bearings and not impose all his weight on her; in their attempts to regulate their unnecessary breathing, he had slowly settled, if not a little awkwardly, himself in the crook of her neck and shoulder just next to her person. She had turned her face away from him, and his stomach churned at the consequences of his self-imposed quest to gain a semblance of human emotion. In that realization, panic uncharacteristically rose from his chest and he… tried speaking with her. "Seras… I—" the thought embarrasses him even just thinking about what he'd said next. Not long after he'd finished, he realized, quite  _stupidly_ too that… well, she'd fallen asleep. Literally. She'd snored as a response and he almost laughed because  _what vampire, in the history he's been alive and killing the creatures, **snores?**_  He'd taken advantage in that moment  _—more so than he already had—_ and took the opportunity to gently turn her face. It was a feather's touch; he hadn't been in the company of a woman in this manner for… well, over  _a while._ Not only was the fact that he more or less took her with plenty resistance in the beginning a big part of his hesitation, but it was also the fact that…  _she went along with it,_ but not without saying a few words of her own;  _Are you ashamed of it?_ She had asked,  _Are you ashamed of what you're about to do?_ He hadn't answered that, not specifically, but it did nothing short of surprising him. He shudders a breath, momentarily forgetting she is there; the movement in his chest travels to his whole body until he moves. He legitimately didn't think he'd make it this far… actually, he didn't think he'd really… end up  _alive_ to even— He hears the fabric of the sheets bunching up as they stretch beneath him, but she is not moving and vaguely he wonders if they're  _both_ waiting for the other to say or do something…  _anything._

An  _apology_ would be insulting and offensive to her, he's sure;  _By the way, sorry for pressuring you into this. Not like I gave you a choice, but you didn't fight me too hard, so it must be okay; good shag, though._ It takes everything in him not to physically wretch, and he  _knows_ he has no right to feel such a thing… especially not after what he's done. After what he's put her through. But then he realizes something in that second. He's feeling  _guilt;_  it's ironic because he's gotten exactly what he wanted, hasn't he? Human emotion? He almost asks Seras to just stab him with her shadow tentacle. They  _still_  haven't moved, so he risks turning his head, just barely.

What Walter has failed to realize, however, was that Seras had been turning the very second he was, and so they end up looking straight to the other's face dead on. They stare unblinkingly, first from the fact of being  _caught_ by the other, then from the fact that they caught  _themselves_ trying to look at the other.

Not a good first greeting since waking up.

It is Seras who moves first; Walter doesn't understand the flicker in her eyes. He's not naive to think that she's forgiven this  _—everything that's transpired—_ or really, his betrayal. He understands that, but what confuses him is why she keeps acting like it's  _new._ It's like she can't stand the sight of him  _period._ It's not  _just_ dismay or annoyance; something  _else_ is bothering her, boiling just beneath the surface. Struggling to not let his jaw clench shut, he observes the slight shake of her head and subconsciously tries to make herself smaller with hunched shoulders and posture; it's all in the body language. She seems to be struggling to keep her own jaw shut as well and it bothers him that he can't see her eyes, obscured from sight beneath her lashes and hair. He knows that he's no right to feel the way he does  _—annoyed, undignified and needing of attention like a lost puppy—_ and yet, the words bubble up before he can even stop himself.

"Seras, don't look away from me..."

Those words seem to harden whatever underlying notion she's built up, evident by the fabric bunched up in her fists, and she scoffs under her breath. "Don't you  _dare._ Don't even—" she wipes her mouth, as if the mere act of speaking to him is utterly vile. In reality, it was to prevent herself from repeating the same lines she's been saying throughout this whole ordeal. "You need to  _leave._   _Now._ "

He didn't exactly gain a  _filter_ when he was put through The Doctor's special surgery. Logically, he knows he should obey, but his newly acquired and familiar wit has always gotten the best of him. His own fist tightens, though more out of hesitation. "I don't believe I will." This time she does turn around to face him, glares at him with intention to murder.  _If looks could only kill._ He idly wonders what she would say if he told her she looks undeniably beautiful with such a look; he shoves the thought into the back of his mind.

"I didn't  _ask,_ Walter; I'm  _commanding_ you," she bares her teeth, and it kills him how he can't decipher the look in her eyes, " _Get. Out."_

Funnily enough, this isn't exactly the first time he's been in a situation where a pretty woman was kicking him out after a shag. This time, though, he doesn't really plan to obey. "Command? Now that's a new word upon your tongue, Seras," her authoritative stance has him smitten, but he does well to hide it; this isn't an appropriate time to display emotions. "Do you still assume me to be the butler? Last time we did this, you couldn't wait for a repeat performance." His voice had lowered into something of a purr for the last bit, and despite the subtlety of an invitation, bitterness seeps through.

Seras catches on to this, though she isn't sure what he has to be bitter about. "Last time," she says through ground teeth, "...you hadn't pressured me so fiercely. Do you intend to repeat that performance as well?" when Walter stills, expression perfectly schooled and body tense, she realizes that she's hit something. Not a nerve, not below the belt… but something. "If you intend to put the weight on  _me_ because I may have  _enjoyed_ the motions, then—"

"Last time," he cuts her off. and tries  _really_ hard not to be hung up on the last part of her statement, "I was old and decrepit. Last time, I couldn't even last for a damn  _three seconds_ before I gave in.  _Last time,_ I almost had a  _stroke,"_ he is not proud to admit that.

Her stomach churns at the thought because she  _resents_ that; how dare he defile that moment? How dare he defile  _himself_ when it had been the  _world_ for her? When  _he—_ "Oh, so is  _that_ what this was? A reclaim on your self-supposed previously 'lost' masculinity and to boost your bloody ego?! Are you  _insinuating_ that I should  _be grateful_ you came here and—?"

Something in him sharpens into clarity, however slight, and before  _he_ even knows it, he's sitting up straighter than ever. His own teeth are bared, and his expression is not unlike the one he'd given Integra when she'd called him with such familiarity after his betrayal. "What I'm  _saying_ is that  _you_ seem to be nothing short of  _infatuated_ with how I presented myself. I'm  _not_ the damn butler; stop  _trying_ to bring him  _back!"_

The unexpected outburst catches her off guard, because when had she even  _mentioned_ his age? More importantly, when had he  _caught_ on to the fact that she  _longed_ for what he used to be? Her face twists into solemnity, almost giving in. "How could I try and bring back what never existed? You've made it  _very_ clear the first time you explained to me." Her own bitterness bleeds through, and she remains silent for a few more beats, contemplating if she should even try to reason with this creature. "And yet," she sighs disappointingly, more at herself than him, "… despite all that, I would rather at least have the  _impression_ from memory; could you at  _least_ let me have that? Perhaps  _you're_ bitter and bloody insecure about your aging body,  _but I'm not._ I..." she trails off, not exactly knowing what to say or how to say what she  _might want to say._ It's embarrassing.

"Don't tell me that you genuinely  _enjoyed_ it," his words are an ugly hiss; it almost seems like he's a  _jealous_ lover… but towards  _himself._ "Don't tell me that you  _enjoyed_ having a rotten walking corpse against—"

"I won't stand for  _slander;_ I  _liked_ you,  _even if you were just fooling us all this whole time,_ I  _enjoyed_ your company and I wouldn't have had it any other way. If you truly expect me to be  _grateful_ that you pressured me tonight merely because of the fact that you're  _young_ and 'supposedly'  _functional,_ then that surgery scrambled your brain more so than I originally thought!" He looks mildly disgusted; had he truly looked at himself with such disdain? Had he truly thought himself incapable of being useful because of  _age?_ "Yeah, that's  _right._ I'll say it just a little bit clearer for you to hear:  _I liked shagging you when you were old!_ But your insecurities are  _not_ my responsibility and I'm more than bloody sure that you didn't go through the process to get better in the sack, Walter..." her shoulders sag and she's suddenly  _tired,_ "... _God..._ What did they  _do_ to you?" Had they truly stripped him of all morality? "Did you truly hate that you were  _old?"_

He is not amused by her  _brilliant detective work,_ and merely stares. "You won't ever  _have_ to live through such a horrid experience. Do not speak out of turn. You know  _nothing._ "

That gets Seras angry, but it merely lingers on her face for a brief moment because, much to his confusion, she chuckles… and it makes something cold wash over him. She points her gaze skyward, not wanting to look at him, evidently, "God… You truly are nothing more than a child, Walter. A pathetic and spoiled  _brat_ that—" He does not let her finish, hand seizing her throat in a grip meant to keep her still. Not tight enough to try and kill her  _—which obviously wouldn't do anything,_ but firm.

Despite their vampiric bodies and states, they breathe harshly. He gulps hard, but he can tell she is not afraid. "I said  _not_ to speak out of turn, Seras Victoria. You're on thin ice."

She scoffs again, truly unafraid and unimpressed, but  _hurt._ "And what are you going to do? Do you intend to take me by force again?" his grip tightens as consequence for that, but it doesn't deter her, "You say you were decrepit back then, but just take a good look at yourself now; you're just  _wretched._ "

His lips twitch despite himself, "I see something more powerful than what I ever was."

Her face does not betray her displeasure. "Powerful, maybe, but nothing more than the  _scum_ that had loitered these streets. You're no angel, you're a  _demon,_ " her own hand grips his wrist, a show of her own strength considering the fact she gets him to loosen it, "Perhaps you always were, but I  _won't ever stop…_ I refuse to… ever stop having the old Walter in fond memory. Especially not after what happened." His eyes narrow, scrutinizing, biting,  _bitter,_ but it doesn't stop her. "I won't ever cease to hold him—" her visions is blurred with red again, but her voice is softer, kinder,  _hoping,_  when her hand travels from his wrist to overlap the back of his palm. She tugs until he complies, moving his hand with hers— " _here..._ " —to rest on top of her heart, a dead thing, but still there. Crimson pearls splatter against the skin of her hand, and she's too hurt  _—too disappointed—_ to really look up again. She shoves his hand away like it's the most disgusting thing she's ever had to touch; to his credit, he doesn't try and touch her again.

It takes him a few moments to find his voice after that confession, "Are you really so delusional? Are you truly that  _desperate_ that you would evade the truth so willingly?" He tries to sound reprimanding, as if he knows more and better, mocking even; but it's a pathetic shadow. He's more than bitter, he's  _resentful._ "I've  _always_ been this way. I'm a proud man, self-interested and rather enjoy bloodlust.  _That has never changed._ For you to insinuate otherwise, to  _pretend_ I was anything else is just  _lunacy,_ Seras." These word right bright and true, and had it not been for the delivery  _—voice shaking, tone wavering, eyes twitching—_ anyone else would get the impression he's  _proud._ Once upon a time, he was, and  _very_ much so. But now? Now it just feels—

Her sniff recaptures his attention, and the look on her face is almost enough to make him reach out. "I know," she whispers, shaking and  _broken,_ "I  _know_ that; it's not like I'm ever allowed to have something  _nice_ and  _normal_ no matter how hard I try, anyway… but I don't  _care_ what's the truth. I'm  _fine_ with just—" he can see she's struggling how to handle herself; it's almost like she doesn't know what to do with her hands and her tears. She tries to put distance between them, until she's at the far edge of the mattress, limbs wrapping themselves around her body. Another emotion resurfaces, one that is not unfamiliar, but one that he cannot place. "…I don't know what I'm trying to say, really..." that comes out more like she's speaking to herself. She looks solemn, head shaking, hands running over her face and hair as, trying to regain control, "I don't know what you want to hear from me..."

"I don't want to hear anything, Seras," he says, uncharacteristically tender, though really not the best way to express himself; it sounds stupid after the words come out, but he has no chance to correct himself because she looks very close to mauling him right then and there.

"No, of course you don't. You just want to keep pretending you're the hot, bloody, vampire  _shit_ , all because you're young again," she scowls, and hauls herself up and  _away_ from him; she is tired of looking at him. "I don't think I'll repeat myself,  _Angel of Death;_ you got what you wanted, didn't you?" She gestures vaguely to the space between them,  _his actions,_ in disgust, "You shagged the poor little orphan girl,  _congratulations._  Now if  _kindly_ don't mind, please  _leave_ my home… In case you couldn't figure it out at this point, I don't want want to keep looking at you." She almost believes that he will actually listen and obey her, at least to just be decent. And yet, somehow, she isn't surprised… nor is she, surprisingly enough, at all let down.

"Don't pretend that this was a singular effort, Seras," he  _knows,_ and he  _knows_ she knows; she isn't stupid. "I was letting you go, and I was  _leaving_  and then you—"

She flinches in shame… but on the inside, she is…  _pleased,_ for some reason. "I  _wasn't_ thinking— I mean, I just— I..." She can hear him standing up, and she finally takes into consideration that he's  _very_ naked. Young and naked. Young and naked  _and really, not bad looking and_ ** _fuck—_** Her face and neck flush despite herself.

He doesn't notice, he is preoccupied with other matters, "Oh, so because it's so  _shameful_ for you to  _maybe_ have reciprocated, now you're denying what we did in the first place?"

"That's  _not_ what I said! I didn't regret what we did in the manor!"

"And you're purposefully missing the point; I'm not talking about  _that_ time, I'm talking about what  _just_ happened no more than two hours ago!" She doesn't understand where this conversation is going, where it came from or what he  _—either of them—_ want anymore. It's all blended together, mixed into something that they just can't seem to get out of. "You claim not to like  _me_ , the 'new' Walter, even knowing full bloody well that  _I haven't changed._ And you have the madness to claim you prefer my decrepit, old body while  _participating in what we just did!_ "

"I told you that your fucking insecurities  _aren't_ my problem, Walter! Get  _over_ it, already!" she refuses to comment further and tries to leave the room herself; he doesn't let her of course. Never. Not even when they'd done their  _forbidden tryst_ had he wanted to let her go. He steps in front of her, holds her in place with hands on her shoulders, and she is too flustered and undignified to sputter a proper response at first. "Are we really doing this again?  _Do you really want to try this again?!"_

"Acknowledge me," she finally looks at him, truly since they've woken up. He is livid and she doesn't think she's ever seen him  _quite_ like this. Hair down, monocle gone, eyes bright,  _face young…_ she tries not to appreciate it,  _this is_ ** _not_** _the time to go ga-ga over a pair of pretty eyes!_ "Acknowledge the fact that  _maybe_ you liked this too. Yes, I admit I forced you in the beginning, I followed you, and I  _hounded_ you… but don't say that I wasn't letting you go. Don't make it seem like I made it  _hurt_ or I made you cry from anything else other than pleasure." She could have been infuriated by his choice of words, and quite purposefully too, except she can't because she  _knows_ exactly what he wants to say and she doesn't have it in her to keep arguing over semantics and misunderstandings. "Don't say that you  _envisioned_ me from  _before_ ; don't delude yourself into thinking that you don't  _like_ —"

"That's  _enough_ ," her voice is hoarse and dry; she's on the brink of a mental breakdown or a panic attack and a blind rage. She wants to pull him closer and push him away. She wants to see him suffer and she wants to see him  _happy._ "That's… not..."

"Not  _what?_ Is that not true? Or is that you refuse to acknowledge this 'didn't happen'? _"_ he doesn't let her face turn away; his grip on her chin is harsh, but his voice is  _pleading._

He  _is_ right; she  _hadn't_ been envisioning his elderly body. Seras is not proud to admit, but the man was a damn good sight; she can appreciate beauty,  _—of course she can, she's nineteen and young and—_ but that's beside the point. That's beside  _the whole damn point._ He's trying to delude himself with her. It's not  _right._ "Walter," she finally says, quiet and just  _done,_ hand on his wrist. She sighs, "… what is this really about? Why did you seek me out for this?" He begins to question her, but Seras is nothing if not thorough; she's a cop at heart, after all, "Do you really expect me to believe you came to me, and from what I see  _only_ me, six months after this bloody massacre and your betrayal… to  _shag?_ Are you not interested in Master Integra? Alucard? Hellsing?"

His fingers dig into her flesh just a bit, but his scowl is fierce, "I already  _said_ I have no interest in Hellsing."

Her eyes do not waver from his, "I don't believe you..."

"I don't  _care_ what you believe in Miss Victoria, but I..." they both notice his slip at the same time, both eyes widening just a fraction; one in familiarity and the other in hope.

Seras's bright, red eyes  _break,_ and her mouth follows soon after that. Her initial reaction had been to push away, but there's a sharp longing in her chest, and the words come out before she can stop them, "Say that again…  _please_..." His eye twitches and he considers it for a second  _—just one—_ before he begins to pull away. This time, she's the one that doesn't let him get away, holding his palm to her lips; a gesture that is familiar to them both,  _that was dear to her._ "Please  _don't…_  Don't  _leave_ after saying…  _calling_ me that..." For all her previous anger, her annoyance, her irritation, her ire, Seras is still very much  _human_  in nature. She missed him, too.

"You're being irrational Seras… this isn't… I didn't  _mean_  to—" His words would have annoyed her perhaps two minutes ago, and he's probably right. But his hesitation gives her encouragement… and it makes him feel foolish. Because he realizes that… yes, he missed her. He's missed them and he… he regrets. He  _regrets_ his actions. "I can't take any of it back..." he says, slight and hushed, "No matter how much I  _want_ to… I just…  _can't_ seek either of them out.. _."_ Despite what she may have heard, no matter how much Alucard and Integra have made her aware of the kind of person he really is, she still  _doesn't_ know, not really; "There's still so much… that you don't know."

She's vaguely heard such a line once or twice; in those sappy romance novels. It's her cue to deliver the line:  _Show me._ The thought almost elicits a snort from her nose, but she mostly wonders why he even cares. What does he  _want?_ "You're absolutely right. So then  _why?_ Why do you hide so much, and then  _demand_ from me? What do you hope to gain?"

He doesn't respond immediately, but despite the fact, something crosses over his face, like a shadow; something that she knows she wasn't meant to see. "I just wanted…" He pulls her closer, his hand having snaked out of the proximity from her lips and the back of her neck. His own lips are to her forehead, hovering over the skin like he wants to plant a kiss, but he doesn't. It's a strangely intimate gesture; the same one he did to her that night.

— _I was hoping to run into a familiar face._ Something clicks,  _—I'm_ ** _not_** _interested in Hellsing—_ and she's only begun to realize the specific reason as to why he's sought her out. Not just fondness, not just familiarity, and not just memory.

_Escape._

_He wants an escape._

She has to swallow hard at the pathetic irony. Because… isn't that what  _she'd_ sought out from him that night, as well? Comprehension dawns, sympathy too  _—though, that was always there buried underneath the layers of spikes—_ She knows she should just kick him out, but honestly? She's just  _tired._

She's been wanting an escape too.

"I can't  _fix_ you; no matter how much… I  _want_ to… I  _can't_..." and damn it, she  _wants_ to; not even because she's under the delusion of  _love_ or that he'll  _stay,_ but just for him… for someone she cares about. In his quest for a fight he hadn't thought his entire plan through; she doesn't need to ask to realize the obvious. It had felt so hollow for him, and he's been nothing more than a husk since.

His gaze hardens, but his grip loosens. "I'm not asking you to. Abandon such notions you have about healing me, fixing me,  _recuperating_ me; I don't need them. I just need..." His thumb brushes over her lower lip, his fingers on her cheek.

She leans into his touch  _willingly_ , a first throughout their whole interaction. But at the risk of breaking the moment, she must ask, "How are you… feeling?"

He sucks in a small breath, just barely so. "A little more… like myself again..." Not that it matters overall, but it's what he came here for initially, right? To  _feel._

"Do you… want to feel even more?" Hellsing will never forgive her, but somehow, she can't find it within herself to care. "Can I trust you not to use the wires again?" Too stunned for proper words, he merely nods. The slack-jawed expression of his makes her almost want to smack him. Seras only nods in return and then… averts her gaze almost shyly. "Okay… well… Just give me a moment to.. just..." As it turns out, when one decides to finally take action, at least purposefully, it proves to be a lot harder than when being reluctant.  _Because,_ as it turns out, she becomes  _aware_ again of their states of dress. More specifically,  _the lack of his,_ and how  _close_ they are and  _t_ he more she thinks about it, the more she wants to just… step out of the room and take a  _breath_ because- She must look mighty stupid just running a hand through her hair in nothing but a t-shirt with a red face; she's trying  _really_ hard not to look.

But before she can conjure up an excuse of  _let me go to the bathroom_ , she's interrupted by a laugh. A  _real_ genuine laugh. Walter's laugh. Seras looks on in amazement; when was the last time… no, when had she ever  _seen_ him laugh at all? He looks… so…  _relaxed,_ it's kind of… amazing. So  _human._   _Is he going to make fun of me?_ Many thoughts conjure in her mind, and she has half a mind to bolt, but soon enough she's somehow on the bed, his face buried in the crook of her neck, and a large hand peeling her shirt away; but he's still  _chuckling,_ she can feel the vibrations from his chest and mouth, which soon enough tingles on her lips. Her hands gently run over his hair, his shoulders and his back. She lets herself moan and sigh in pleasure at his touch and kisses. It's still Walter, after all.

He peels away from biting her lower lip and she arches into him. "Another try," he says, but underneath is a question.

She's flustered and red, but she nods slowly; her eyes hold a warning and an answer. "Another try; don't bloody mess it up."

He smirks, "I think I can manage that."

"With your newfound power and youth, you'd  _better,"_ after a moment; "I expect to be unconscious by the end of it."

He laughs again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... I failed this prompt so hard OTL
> 
> I also don't really know what DARK!Walter means, do I?


	10. hope (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This combines the canonicity of the Gonzoverse + OVAs, but leans more toward the anime. Heavily inspired by Silvershine’s Nymph on FF and Lolita by Vladmir Nabovok.

**summary:** _Walter recites his own tragic love story. “_ _She was my Delilah, and then my Tamar; this is how I fell,_ _a_ _nd I welcomed_ _the impact._ _” — #Seras/Walter #Dark!Walter_

* * *

_**ubi amor, ibi infernum (I)  
** _ _where there is love, there is hell_

**I HAD MY** reasons for my my betrayal; I had long made my mind before you came into the picture. But your hardened gaze tells me that's not what you're here for; I've raised you, in case you forgotten. I can read you like a book, even as I am now, chained, at your mercy and all within this new body; I was the one who  _taught_ you how to conceal your expressions. So please, do not insult me by trying to use them on me; I'm still very much your elder, despite these circumstances.

Oh. You don't like my  _young_ voice? I must admit, this will take some getting used to; I've only had so much time to come to terms with it myself, but I'm not complaining.

But you're not here for the sake of  _my_ well-being, are you?

You're here because of  _her._ You want answers; I know you do. But I don't think you would truly understand unless I told you the entire story in detail; you believe me to be mad and deprived of whatever morality I had. You wouldn't be entirely wrong, although, you're not entirely right, either. That damn Doctor was a farce, just as I knew he was, and he left his toy with so many cracks and faults. But I am not the same person you've come to know; I never was. You don't have even the slightest clue despite what you're blasted pet has told you. Don't try to argue with me; I've never been a  _morally decent_ person, I just got better at  _hiding_ it. Even now, I can see you don't  _want_ to believe me. You still hold the senile old man I used to be in high regard; you still want me to be him.

I'm sorry to disappoint you.

So let me put it to you this way; if  _you_ are wanting to be naive to my treason, my true person, can you imagine just how naive  _she_ was?  _Still_ is? Even now? It's an astounding amount. I don't blame you for being concerned. You chuckle at even the sheer possibility because you don't think a horrid creature like me is capable of such emotions. I hadn't either. But I've been doubting myself for nearly six decades. I doubted just a bit more when she arrived, and I doubted myself in the last second before the werewolf and fat-man recruited me again.

You're wondering when it'd started.

No, not my betrayal, but the mutual involvement between Seras and I; you just can't digest the fact I hadn't completely manipulated her into this. Perhaps I did; I  _like_ to think I did, but would you believe me if I said that  _she_  manipulated me as well? No, of course you wouldn't. In reality, we've done nothing but underestimate her from the very beginning. She's kind, but she is no fool; she's soft, but she's strong when it matters most. She is sincere, but she can be cunning.

Yes, you heard that correctly.

She's a nymph; she's too pure to be called a vixen, succubus or even a minx, because she's nothing else if not genuine. When she cares about someone, it isn't unfounded or with some hidden motive; she's too genuine, she's  _kind._ A stupid girl. A stupid, kind and  _beautiful_ woman that has no damn business being involved with Hellsing. How Alucard managed to turn her still eludes me. You look at me in disdain. You don't disagree with me, but you're not impressed with what I've said thus far; I told you, didn't I? In order for you to understand, you need to know everything from the beginning.

Because how the hell can someone like her ever get involved with someone like me? A nineteen year old vampiric girl with a near seventy year old traitorous scum. It sounds so improper and scandalous when put into such words; I don't disagree with you. She's a fool.

But then, I'm the even bigger fool. That's how I got into this mess.

In reality, this all started even before the war happened, even before the Valentine brother's attack. You look disgusted and surprised because that implies that there was fraternization when I still had my old body. You would be correct; that's quite alright, I understand.

So, then. Let me tell you  _everything_ ; let me tell you how it all began.

**( &. )**

I am slightly bemused at Alucard's so called  _whim,_ but I can already tell just how  _unfit_ she is to be here when I first even entered her room to provide her with her new uniform. It's amusing at first, most certainly; but the more I interact with this girl, the more I am left feeling almost  _pity_ for her.

She approaches me on an early weekday morning as I begin my routinely duties, starting with the dusting; I vaguely wonder if I should reprimand her for being awake, but I abandon the notion. Without looking, I address her, "Good morning, Miss Victoria; can't sleep?"

The air sparks of nervousness; the girl is a distraught mess and she doesn't even realize it. "Good morning Walter," I get the impression she bites her lip; I am meticulous in my task, and I want to be thorough with the duster. Fortunately, she doesn't take my lack of physical attention as rudeness; something tells me, actually, that she welcomes it, even. "And well… no, not really," she awaits my response, probably expecting me to pass harsh judgment; I can hear the distinct relief in her voice when I provide none, "I thought transitioning to this kind of lifestyle would at least be easier regarding my more  _human_  habits."

It's only been a couple of weeks since she's arrived, though. Where she gained the underlying notion that  _transitioning_ would be  _easy_ is lost on me, but it doesn't take me long to realize it's more of a self-imposed type of pseudo determination that she's no doubt tried to implant on herself since she's arrived. I blame Alucard. Regardless, self-pity doesn't do much in this house and I tell her such.

She shrugs. "I just figured, at least from the bed if anything," having coincidentally finished with the antique vase, I turn to her with an eyebrow raised. This wouldn't be the first time I've looked at her with unimpressed, albeit piqued, observation. Yet, like the first time, it doesn't fail to make her flustered. "I-I mean, because it's… quite elegant. Comfortable." I am not exactly sure how to respond to her dribble, so I let out a slight  _hm._

Later on, according to her, she would inform me that she thought it was because I was judging her, belittling her; not an incorrect statement in its' entirety, but not completely accurate. I am  _curious_ about her and all that I ask myself is  _What the bloody hell had Alucard been thinking?_ _Bringing someone like her into this lifestyle?_

She attempts to save face; I decide to be nice. Staring is rude, after all, and it's not like I don't remember being looked down upon by those who thought I was nothing more than a brat. Even if, of course, our circumstances and personalities are  _quite_ different. She has a natural charm to her; it's  _sincere_ and an almost comical to see such a thing in this house. She's good at masking her sorrow with smiles and cheer. It's pitiful, but it's also brave. She ends up following me around for about an hour, even helps me with some of the smaller tasks. We make small talk and she even thanks me for providing a listening ear. It takes me an unusually long time to figure out the reason for her apparent insomnia; she is lonely. It's only logical; based on my background check of this girl, she's always been endearingly coddled. She was even referred to as  _kitten_ as a term of endearment by her squadron on the force.

It's not hard to see why.

Before we part ways, something overcomes me and I speak without even thinking. "Miss Victoria… If you ever wish to have a chat, whether it's general questions about Hellsing or even vampirism, I could offer assistance. If you don't mind talking to an old John Bull, that is." She smiles at me, right then; I've never been a particular fan of poetry or romantic literature, but I swear, seeing that smile is like watching the sun emerge after a severe storm. It's not contagious, but it's peculiar, and I appreciate its' charm.

"Thank you Walter; I appreciate that immensely."

I give her a small smile of my own in return and nod my head, "Of course Miss Victoria; it's a pleasure to serve." I now think that's where  _my_ interest sparked, even if I refused to see it. It was the prelude to another revelation that would occur later. Though for her, I can't say in confidence.

It's from that small encounter that more tends to happen. All by chance, of course. My senile old mind isn't as cunning as it used to be, nor do I have an outward interest in pursuing such things.

After performing dutiful maintenance on her  _Harkonnen,_ she thanks me. Again,  _genuinely_ ; it makes me chuckle under my breath, and she regards me curiously, and asks, "What's so funny?"

I shake my head, "I hardly hear a word of gratitude these days; it's strange hearing it without a sarcastic bite, is all." In all honesty, it really doesn't bother me. I am, after all, the butler of the house; it's all part of the job. She doesn't seem to take kindly to the fact, much to my amusement.

"Why wouldn't you be thanked? You do so much for everyone," I reiterate her the fact that I've been doing this for nearly sixty-five years; the novelty of gratuity becomes exactly that. The answer doesn't seem to please her, and she shakes her head ever so slightly. "Just because nobody does it doesn't they mean they shouldn't; I can only imagine the bloody hell you've put up being the butler in the first place all this time." She has no idea the sheer weight imaginable of that fact, but I let her think she does just to see what else she says, and what she does say is no less than unexpected. "Well, even if Sir Integra or Master or even the soldiers don't,  _I_ intend to keep saying  _thanks_. It's the very least I can do."

She gives me a soft smile, and there's just something  _right_ below the surface that I overlook. It's almost cheeky; it's  _mischievous._ The possibility doesn't make sense to me in the moment, so I brush it off as it being my old age finally catching up to me.

I smile at her with a tilted head, letting her know that there's no need to work up such a fuss over something so trivial. It wouldn't be until later that night, as I thought of her words in passing that I realize… it  _does_ feel rather nice to be thanked; even for cleaning a weapon or pouring tea. The sentiment doesn't leave me; I feel almost humbled that she would take special exclusivity in  _thanking_ me, of all things.

I really  _am_ old if I'm appreciating something like this. I keep these thoughts to myself well, and soon she approaches me again all the while giving me a rather peculiar gaze. She needs help with a rather delicate topic, one which, frankly, she hadn't wanted to approach you or Alucard with. So she deemed me as the most viable option. This is how we end up in the library not long after her plea. Yet, I can't shake the feeling that she's exaggerating this whole bit just a tad. I don't know  _why_  and honestly, I feel a little guilty for assuming such a thing from such a girl.

But like I said, we  _all_ underestimated her.

I'm currently trying to feel the spines of the book until I happen upon the correct one. I know the library and its contents by heart, having been in here so many times myself. When I finally do, I pull out and dust the cover gingerly. "Walter Sir, are…. Are you indeed  _sure_  that I'm going to find what I need in here? In a book, no less?" She looks around the room, as if scared of being caught; I remain calm and grow rather amused at her nervous movements. It's ironic that she has such a rabbit-like exterior. I smirk just ever so, and I do believe that unsettles her further. "It's not  _funny_."

"Forgive me, Miss Victoria; I truly don't mean any harm," and I mean it, "Wondering about your… new vampiric anatomy and sensations is nothing to be ashamed about." I hold out the book for her, but she refuses to even touch it until I acknowledge her in the eyes.

Her eyes are wide as a doe's and her hands are clasped together in requesting mercy, "Just  _promise_ me you won't tell Alucard or Sir Integra," I initially have no problem telling her what she wants to hear just to mention to either of you later, but before I can make such a decision, whether because she  _knows_ me, which is preposterous, or because she's determined to keep this in secrecy, Seras takes a step forward. " _Please,_ Walter, I  _mean_ it. I know the lot of you are awfully close but I'm  _begging_ you.  _Please_ don't tell…  _anyone_." It really  _does_ look like she wants to cry, and telling you this now honestly makes me want to laugh; she truly  _is_ something else.

But in the moment, as old and worn and still very much  _human_ as I am, can't help but have a spark of…  _something_ in my chest as a reaction. Confusion? Bewilderment? Concern? "Miss Victoria, truly, it's nothing to be ashamed of at all. It's only natural you're curious. There's no shame in wondering whether you'll experience heightened sexua—"

I am  _almost_ shocked at the fact that she's interrupted me by placing her gloved hand on my mouth. The impact hadn't been hard at all, but it had been sudden; I have to take a moment to breathe through my nose because her thumb is wedged just between and through my lips, rendering me, literally, speechless.

"Please  _don't_ say it out loud." I can only nod my head once, and as if ashamed at her rashness, she takes a moment to breathe out a sigh through her nose, a most unneeded act now as a vampire, and she steps back. "Look… I just..." she gestures to herself, "I don't… I've  _never_ —" obviously, but I refrain from saying anything, "I mean… I don't want to start  _now_. Which is to say, I guess… if I  _do,_ I don't want it to be solely because of…  _this_."

"And why ever not?" What my goal is here remains a mystery to me. Why am I spending time trying to convince a young  _vampira_ to be more open about her sexuality? I get the feeling I've past my boundaries, and it isn't my intention to be an intrusive pervert, but I'm curious. "You're at the peak of your youth, Miss Victoria; why  _not_ enjoy your moment?" I smile at my own joke. She doesn't find it too funny.

I know youths these days are far more open about their sexual conquests and experimentation. I see no reason why such a modern young lady feels even remotely prudish and  _shy_ about such a topic. You'd expect that from a child who was raised either religiously or as a monk. She is neither. I tell her so.

She only deflates, as if I've failed to understand something.

"I'm  _assuming_ if my…" much to my amusement, she sighs, as if it pains her to talk about the subject. In retrospect, talking about sex with your employer's butler is hardly something to leap for joy about, I suppose. "If my  _l-libido_ acts up because of what I am, then surely… other feelings start to surface and heighten because of it. Or, well… the opposite. Things can get rather messy."

"...I see," I say, not really thinking about  _what_ in particular I see or what she's  _trying_ to get me to see. For once in a long time, I simply feel daft,  _because I don't understand_ and I understand a lot less why she's looking to me as if she's asking something of me.

Aging truly is a decay on the mind. You do see now why I couldn't  _stand_ growing even a year older, don't you?

I swear that her eyes flash upwards for a mere moment at my lack of response, before she gingerly peels the book away from my hands. "Thank you Walter. I appreciate your help." Somehow I feel that, this time, her gratitude is an obligation for her rather than genuineness. "I know you'd rather be anywhere else than humoring the rookie with her virgin problems."

Regardless of how she means it, she still smiles at me like she's trying to placate an old man. I don't like it. "Nonsense, Miss Victoria; I'm always available for your convenience." I bow as the butler does, and when I look up, she's regarding me with a tilted head and a curious gaze.

"Truly?" she chuckles behind a modest hand, "I'll have to remember that, then. Will you be available to me even when I need a kiss goodnight?"

Where that line came from is beyond me, but I know that based on her light laugh and blush, she means to make a joke. She's not the best at those. Without falter, I respond promptly, "Even then." It's quiet for a few moments, and she is clearly nonplussed.

For a second, I feel  _regret_ for humoring her; it's not in my character, but as I've said, I'm nothing else if not  _in curiosity_ with this girl. I'm made to do things that I haven't before, purely with the intent of eliciting a reaction from her.

There's that glint in her eyes again, and it's familiar; I recognize it as an enemy willing to take on a challenge, not unlike how Jan Valentine would regard me in battle in the coming weeks. But it's gone as soon as it comes and she shrugs, her delicate smile soft and sincere yet again. "I'll keep that in mind."

And this, perhaps, is where it really begins?

I'm not simply her employer's butler anymore, I am a  _challenge_ to overcome. Later I would learn that what had transpired wasn't just a friendly conversation; it was a  _trap,_ and I foolishly delivered the proverbial green light. I am sure of this now more than ever, because what occurred the next time we met is something that not even the blasted chip could erase from my memory.

Not even when I tried to destroy it myself.

One rainy night, while you were debriefing Alucard on a solo mission, I tended to stocking inventory on the blood supply. I knock on her door with my free hand, "Miss Victoria, it's Walter; I have your medical bags. Fresh batch." I receive no immediate answer; perhaps she doesn't appreciate the joke, "I'm entering." I do so, and it occurs to me that she's in her washroom. I set the tray down with a grunt, my back aching. My age is truly catching up to me in the most inconvenient times.

Her voice is slightly muffled through the door, "Sorry Walter; do you need anything from me?"

"Not at the moment; don't mind me, I'm just restocking your supply," though honestly, it's unnecessary from the looks of her fridge. I pinch the bridge of my nose and let out a ragged sigh. I know it's not my job to scold or reprimand her, but my patience wears thin tonight. "Miss Victoria; we've spoken about this. You need to  _drink._ You can't keep flushing all your blood bags down the toilet; you're only hurting yourself in the process."

She doesn't answer me immediately, perhaps feeling attacked, and it makes me exhale rather sharply. I stand from crouched position, stepping away from the small fridge and snapping my old bones in the process. "Miss Victoria, did you hear me?" I turn to address her washroom door. It is ajar, and my eyes roam to the open crack; heavy steam rolls out, but I can still see everything reflected from the mirror's angle. I see her frivolous toiletries, her combat gloves, a lone toothbrush and most important of all, I see  _her._

I see Seras Victoria… and she is topless.

The sight of a naked woman is not something new to me in the slightest. But with her, for some reason, I can't find my voice.

I won't lie to you, I think in that moment I was having a stroke.

"Yes, I heard you Walter," I doubt she has. Her cheeks are puffed, her eyes focused on her reflection and brow slightly furrowed. "I just… well, you know how I feel about the whole thing." I almost reel back as she cups her breast, lashes fanning her cheeks as if checking for something on that delicate mound of flesh. It is very painful to gulp. She kneads expectantly, pinching the area around her nipple; her facial expression suggests that whatever she's looking for is, unfortunately, nowhere to be found. She does the same to her other breast. She releases a sigh, and shakes her head, disappointed. I want to know what she's looking for.

Not once does she make an indication that she's aware of my invading her privacy, and I still haven't looked away; I can't fathom  _why._ I was too engrossed in my loyalty to Hellsing to have an active sex life in my youth, but it wasn't like I was deprived either.

But there's something about  _her_ specifically that makes me unable to really look away.

She begins to rub lotion on herself, starting with the curvature of her neck and shoulders; she's meticulous in her task, and my fingers twitch at the sight. Even from here, I can see the two vacant scars Alucard left on her neck; they are stark against smooth skin. I almost don't hear her when she speaks, though, I only catch the end of it, "...I'm trying though, I swear. Cross my heart and kiss my elbow."

I blink at the ludicrous expression, "I beg your pardon?" My voice cracks just a bit, but I bring myself to. The serene, almost lax, expression on her face is so  _human_ , that I scarcely believe this girl is full-blooded vampire now. Vaguely, I wonder how Alucard would feel if he knew an old dog like me was playing  _peeping tom_ with his nineteen-year old apprentice; I get the feeling he'd be thoroughly entertained.

She stops her ministrations when I ask, and my breath hitches at the sight of her hands pausing just above her clavicle. Her swollen lips, which I notice are the same shade as her rosy nipples, quirk, and it's the most charming thing I have seen. "It's a reference to that one film,  _Breakfast at Tiffany's_." She looks, for all the world to see, cheeky and content with herself. "I've always wanted to say that," her hands continue massaging.

I would be a fool to say I didn't find the girl attractive. She's in her prime youth, and she is a sight for sore and weary eyes. It's not hard to see that even Alucard appreciates that either. I somehow find my voice, loud and clear. "Yes… well, as long as you're trying. I won't have you wasting any more resources; blood is surprisingly scarce."

She doesn't answer me, but her smile grows a little wider. I may be… morally questionable, but I am still a proper Englishman, despite everything else. It's at this moment I choose to finally turn away, and there's something akin to shame creeping up on the sides of my neck. After I finish my task, all the while ignoring any impulse to look again, I begin to take my leave. "I'll leave you to it, Miss Victoria."

I don't expect her to step out of the washroom, but she has her pressed uniform on in record time. Color me impressed. Despite her undead state, she has a healthy flush to her cheeks, "Thank you Walter. I swear, I'll try and feed myself proper."

Right, I had forgotten about her self-imposed duty to show me gratitude to make up for the lack of yours. "As always, it's not a problem."

She doesn't challenge my words, but she has a slightly bemused look on her face, and she steps close to me. Before I can process anything, she has a non-gloved hand on my forehead, "Are you alright? You seem a little flushed..." she murmurs, red doe eyes blinking in concern.

For once in a very long time, I feel…  _nervous._ How humiliating; I'm much too old to be feeling anything like this. I clear my throat and respectfully step away from her hand, "Must be my by blood pressure acting up. Nothing you need to worry yourself with, truly."

To be honest, I'm far less concerned with the morality of my actions and more with my own well being. Has this girl really elicited such a reaction from me? It's logical I would  _look,_ but it's far less so that I feel…  _something_  when she's looking at me with those red eyes and pouted lips.

She slowly lowers her hands and blinks. "Well… If you say so." It almost sounds like she's disappointed and I'm convinced I'm finally going senile. Somehow, that truth seems less far fetched than her wanting something out of me. I take my leave promptly and I feel her eyes on me even as I close the door between us; that, I  _know_ I couldn't have imagined. I've been partnered up with Alucard on several occasions; my survival instincts have yet to be diminished.

I try to put the incident behind me.

It works marginally, but I power through the next few days. By then, I've convinced myself that what happened in the premises of her bedroom never happened. I am careful not to come in unprecedented; it's not like she's going to need more medical bags any time soon, anyway. I've made sure of it.

Your precious pet clad in crimson stops me in the hallways not long after, much to my chagrin.

"You look awfully tired; is your old age finally catching up to you, Angel of Death?" I get the feeling Alucard picks up on my slight mood, if his smile is anything to go by.

I am not young, calm and collected as I used to be. I am ashamed to say that I flinch, just barely, but enough to have Alucard peer from beneath his yellow shades. I take in a deep breath and turn away.

"I think it's been that way for a while now."

"Indeed." What conclusion he draws from me is unknown, but I'm not interested nor do I care.

I attempt to put up more of a barrier between her and I, as it should be. I am, after all, the butler and we work under the same employer. It's a strange pressure that I put myself under and looking back, I don't know what I was thinking.

Seras is no fool; she picks up on my behavior and it's obvious. Her gazes to me are out of concern and curiosity. I wouldn't be able to tell you the amount of times she'd try to approach my person; of course, I would find any other excuse to make myself scarce.

It works to an extent, but clearly not enough because she approaches me one morning as I tend to the gardens outside the manor, and it takes everything in me not to pinch the bridge of my nose, resisting the urge not to scold her on proper vampiric behaviors. "Good morning, Walter." I respond in kind. "You're up bright and early." She looks curiously to the watering pot in my hold.

It's hardly bright outside at all, so her red eyes are stark against everything, "As always. Was there something I could help you with, Miss Victoria? Are you having trouble sleeping?"

Perhaps my tone is too curt, because her eyes narrow just ever so. "...No, not really. Still not used to my sleeping habits, is all. I still can't bloody stand that coffin." She pouts as she says the last bit, no doubt still resenting me for the fact.

"Indeed. Well, I'd best be moving along. The weeds won't pull out themselves." In truth, I've always hated tending to the  _weeds_ , but I'll do anything to have her get the hint, as it were.

"Perhaps I could help?"

"I truly don't think that's a good idea. You're supposed to be resting, Miss Victoria, as all vampires should be at this time of day." No doubt she's certainly picked up on my rigid tone now, because her whole body stills and she looks slightly confused, if perhaps even a little hurt.

"...Oh."

After a moment of cursing myself for turning soft, I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "… But I suppose I could always use an extra hand. There are gardening gloves hanging in the tool shed, unless you don't mind your uniform gloves becoming soiled." The mere seconds it takes for this girl to become happy from looking dejected is enough to give me whiplash. It's hard to remain annoyed at someone who genuinely wants to talk with you. Lord knows I haven't encountered a kind and almost naive soul in nearly all my time working for Hellsing; it's refreshing, somehow...

"I appreciate that," she says, grin plastered on her face.

"Hm?"

" _Soiled._ I see what you did there," her humor, or lack thereof, elicits a soft smile from me, and I try to keep myself in check. We get to work not long after. Embarrassingly enough, when I bend down, the sound of my bones creaking is perfectly loud and clear, and with her enhanced hearing, I doubt she's missed it. I try not to groan in pain, but a sound does come out from my throat.

"Oh my, are you alright?"

"Yes, yes; don't worry I'm used to it. That sort of thing comes with being in your early seventies." My words don't convince her, and she gingerly places an arm around me. I don't let anyone invade my personal space in such a way, and part of me  _wants_ to push her away, as I don't take kindly of being reminded  _constantly_ on how old I am. More than anything though, I want her  _off_ because her skin is sending jolts through my arm and down my spine. This is unprecedented, silly and inappropriate.

But with her strength and those concerned eyes, I find it hard to do anything else other than accept her help.

"Why don't you sit for a bit, Walter?"

I scoff, "Please don't speak absurdities, Miss Victoria. I assure you, I'm fine and well. Just give a moment."

She raises her brow at me, "With all due respect, anyone who isn't blind can see you're kind of in pain." I'm offended, and my momentary anger makes my lip tremble; an involuntary gesture that angers me even more. She catches on to this and backpedals., her tone soft and kind. "I don't mean you're incapable, Walter; I know you aren't. But a young and very capable young lady is at your disposal," she winks at me, and I try to ignore what it does to me and what those words could mean in another universe, another time, "We'll keep it on the down-low from Master Integra, yes? Just sit, relax, and I'll get it done."

My slight ire seeps from me as quickly as it came, and I am left with a hanging head. How can I say no? "Well, alright. Have at it then." Her victorious grin makes my loss very worthwhile. She even fetches me a beverage. As she picks the weeds, she talks about her assignments, people she's met at Hellsing, her day-to-day routine, and some gossip among the staff. It's the most boring tripe I've ever heard and I have never been more genuinely entertained.

Somehow, this becomes a routine.

Every morning she meets me by the gardens, hears my weary bones and asks me if I'm alright, but goes ahead and sits me down to do the work anyway.

How she got me going along with it is still a mystery to me, even now.

The third day in, her voice is loud and about, clearly entertained by her own story of a joke she's told. She can't remember the punchline. Quietly, I sip on my lemonade, and I try not to feel guilt from looking at her topless through her own washroom.

"...disgusting bloke."

I almost choke on the liquid and come to. "I beg your pardon?"

She is unaware that I had tuned out her dribble and focused on her soft voice like one would with music. I only caught the last bit of her sentence, and hoped that she didn't somehow gain mind-reading as one of her vampiric abilities this soon into her new life. Dirt cakes her cheek and her lips are in a pout. "I know, right? It's bloody awful; such audacity! Can you believe Steadler would have the bloody gall to ask me out, so shamelessly? In front of Fergason, too!"

The name rings familiar to me immediately. I've noticed the young man, as well; he did have a presumptuous air about him that no doubt would be his undoing, in due time. But her admission bothers me slightly and I can't help to ask, "Has he now? I'm assuming he's bothered you before, then?" She looks solemn and my fingers are itching to have a talk with this young man. This feeling of protectiveness is foreign to me when it's not with you.

"That would be an understatement. He doesn't give me the time of day; he constantly picks on me, and ostracizes me from the team. I guess I could handle that, but then he turns around and tries to come  _onto_ me like a piece of meat."

"Hm. Sounds like he fancies you."

She looks thoroughly disgusted as I feel, and I try to ignore how that pleases me. "He asked me if I ever wish for a man to warm my bed." At the confession, her cheeks burn, though from anger or humiliation is subjective.

I'm not ashamed to say, at least in my head, that I'm curious on her answer to such an inquiry. "And what did you respond with?" I half hope she'd induced violence; knowing her, though, it's far fetched.

Her lips curl into a scorn, and she pulls the weeds harder. She shrugs forcefully. "I didn't. I just… walked away," sighing as if disappointed with herself, her shoulders sag, "I've never had the backbone for this kind of thing. I'm  _used_ to being picked on; that kind of thing comes with being the only female in your police squadron. And a  _cadet_ one at that." I had nearly forgotten that at Cheddar, she'd lost everything. She lost those she no doubt addressed as her family.

I pity her, but not ironically or mercilessly. I genuinely do.

I ask her why she hasn't spoken to you about it, but she doesn't give me a straight answer; from this, I realize that she doesn't exactly  _dislike_ you, but she is intimidated by you. She is too embarrassed enough to make a fuss about it; normally, I'd wager this is how young ladies get taken advantage of, but she's not quite human anymore, and she has more power and confidence than she gives herself credit for.

She continues, "But it's just… I don't know, I'm alone now. Like always; it's like a bloody curse. I try to be kind, but I only get my arse bitten for it." That's not true, and I tell her such. She shrugs and remains quiet, as if tired of the subject.

But I don't let it rest. "Remember, Miss Victoria, you very well have the capacity to stand up for yourself. If you don't want this young man bothering you, you march up and tell him so. If things get heated, remember you are superior to him in every possible way.  _Literally._ " She smiles softly at my words, and I hope this means she will follow through. "Besides, you can and most certainly will, if you so desire, be with someone who's mature in their behavior to court you." I entertain my mind by pretending, for just one second, that I could theoretically be that someone.

How silly of me, right?

At that, she looks up. "You really think someone would ever be genuinely interested in me?"

"It's not a matter of what I think, Miss Victoria, it's a  _fact._ " I honestly mean it. It wouldn't be hard for this girl to get a man wrapped around her finger like a love-stricken fool.

I'm the proof, after all.

Her eyes flicker to something I can't decipher, and her smile grows wider, "I've never really thought about it. Thank you, Walter."

"Of course."

Her gaze lingers me for a moment before she turns back to her task, now slower and methodical in pace. "He asked me out to the cinema. Apparently there's some eldritch horror that's taken the box office by storm."

"I see. I'm assuming you'll humor him just to have a free watch?"

My doubts are confirmed when she scoffs in distaste. "I'd rather be bloody taken by the Cheddar priest again," she shakes her head, "What I mean is… would you like to accompany me?"

Oh.

My lack of response must have worried her, because she's looking to me like she's regretted asking me.

I clear my throat, and without really thinking, I respond hastily, "It would be my pleasure to escort you to the cinema, Miss Victoria."

Remember what I said about her giving me whiplash? This would also be one of those moments. She breathes a delicate laugh behind her hand. "I don't mean to escort me, Walter, I mean to  _accompany_ and watch the film with me."

_...Oh._

But she's already taken my answer as a yes, regardless.

I have no time to take back my words, no time to decipher where my agreement came from; blast it all, I don't even have time to surmise the fact that I've just agreed to an outing with Seras Victoria, of all people.

Surprisingly enough, I hardly remember much of it; all I remember is that she looked…  _happy._  Why she would be happy going out on a perfectly late night evening with someone who could very well be her grandfather's age is beyond my level of understanding. But, despite my age, despite my years worth of fighting armies of the undead and the supernatural alike, it doesn't stop me from developing anxiousness in my chest. I haven't been on a date in over… well… I hardly remember. Probably when I was in my twenties.

Remember when I requested that evening off so I could go out and purchase some supplies for the weapon's lab? Indeed, I lied for this very reason.

No, I don't regret it. Neither of us did.

As it turns out, I had worked up a fuss over nothing.

To think I was worried about the outing as a proper date makes me laugh;  _of course_ it isn't a date. She's donning casual wear proper for her age-group; I'm old and grey, so I have an excuse to dress in my usual attire, save for the blue vest. The film makes us laugh instead of giving us a scare, but we try to be considerate to those around us, and so we breath out our silent chuckles throughout most of it.

It becomes harder to concentrate when I notice her hand comes into contact with my arm. Every time there's a 'scary' scene or a jumpscare, she lightly hits my arm before doubling over in snorting giggles. She does this several times before, eventually, she has the gall to slap my knee. The time after that, she lets it linger there. I stiffen without meaning to. I do believe she feels this, and unfortunately, lets her hand fall away. I mourn the contact momentarily, until her forearm lands next to mine on the armrest. I dare to take a peek at her from my peripheral and I realize she doesn't even look my way. Not once. Am I reading too much into this? Am I going mad? I clear my throat, immediately catching her attention. Her red eyes are stark against the darkness of the room, the film playing before us merely background noise. I say nothing, my tongue utterly tied for words; she takes action before I can, and leans towards me. I freeze.

Curse this girl.

And my heart? It would be ridiculous to even say just how fast it'd been beating; I do think I barely managed to escape death when she was around me. The noise of the film fades the closer she comes to me; inadvertently, I feel her ample chest touch my arm, and though the proper thing to do would be to immediately withdraw my arm, I don't. Her lips are near the lobe of my ear, and she begins to whisper: "I'm sorry; did you want the arm rest for yourself?"

It takes me a moment to process that, and I almost ask her to repeat herself. "...It's a-alright," I clear my throat, and speak a little bit clearer, "It's quite alright. I… could just remove my arm." To my surprise, she doesn't let me; she pats my wrist, firmly but gently, leaving me unable to move.

I would be thankful that it's more or less dark, until I remember she's a vampire. But she only gives me a very sly smile and shakes her head. "I don't mind." I am robbed of my chance to answer when she turns her attention back to the screen. She doesn't let me move, and though a small part of me is slightly thrilled, I'm uneasy.

I try to focus on the film, instead.

It's hard to do when she's rubbing circular motions with her finger on my knuckles. I inhale sharply, and it's enough to get her attention. Her gaze is wide and seemingly innocent; enough to make me question my sanity again. Like a fool, I smile, signaling that nothing is amiss. It pleases her and she turns her attention back to the screen. In this moment, I am angry with her. Does she know what she's doing? Is she doing it purposefully? Does she take me for a fool? My lower lip starts to tremble; it's such an…  _elderly_ person thing to do and it infuriates me even more.

Perhaps in that moment I had stiffened up even more, or I must have snapped my spine up, or  _something,_ because she turns to me again.  _What's wrong_ she mouths to me, but I'm afraid I can't sport a smile to placate her this time.

Not that I get the chance.

A sudden and peculiar scream erupts from the film, and it rips her attention from me; this is where I notice something strange. She has stiffened, as if on alert; surely she hasn't been  _scared_ has she? Suddenly, she stands up from her seat, and without so much as a word, she leaves down the steps. I am left alone, confused and looking to her retreating form. I turn back to the film. There is a very explicit scene; a woman is being violated. Immediately, I already know what has happened, I was the one who did the background check on this girl, after all.

Needless to say, she needs the comfort. I am not so insensitive or that level of cruel quite yet to ignore such a thing. Immediately, I step out to follow her.

I find her seated near the car, as if she had contemplated on outright leaving the premises altogether, but then remembered she had company. Despite what she is, she looks nothing more than what feels; a vulnerable creature. Anyone would think nothing is too amiss; just a lovely young lady huddling in her burgundy trench coat from the cold, perhaps waiting for someone, or perhaps was abandoned.

She looks nothing at all to what I'm used to from vampires; I don't think I ever really  _saw_ her as a true vampire, if I were to be honest, despite what would happen later. She's far too kind, too doe-like and even forcefully genuine, if naive. I half expect her to have been crying; she proves me wrong when I approach her and see that her visage isn't even wet. But she looks torn; broken, almost.

And I've never been the best for comforting others; not even to myself, but I try.

I quietly sit myself next to her, not too close though. I contemplate whether I should put my hand on her shoulder, but I dismiss the idea. She's staring ahead, watching something that surely lies only in the depths of her own mind and somewhere that's only for her to see. Her eyes are, for once, not full of joy or kindness or even naivete. They are vacant and hollow and it doesn't suit her in the slightest.

I speak softly after a few moments of silence, "Would you like to talk about it?" She sniffs and shakes her head. I don't push the issue, and I attempt a different approach, "Would you like me to give you a moment?"

She stays so still for a few moments that for a second I think she hasn't heard me. Slowly, she shakes her head. And this time, when she reaches for my hand, I offer no resistance. She buries her head against her forearm, which rests on her knees. She's trying to make herself smaller. The noise from the vehicles passing near us don't prevent even my old ears to hear a sob rip from her throat, her back rippling with the movement. I squeeze her hand, hating the contrast between our hands; my live spotted and wrinkled hand are sin against her smooth skin and tidy nails.

It's almost like she senses my distaste, and perhaps she does, because the second I think about pulling away, she squeezes.

I don't try to escape.

Eventually, our conjoined hands part. I get the feeling we both mourn the physical contact.

When we arrive back to the manor, I walk her to her chambers; I'm very aware at the lack of a certain presence, but as I've said, I have no care for your pet. It's quiet, but it's comforting; I can't read her mind, but I have confidence she's overcome herself.

"Good night Miss Victoria," she turns to me with eyes that are, thankfully, back to their former radiance. My chest is relieved from the weight that has settled on it; for once, I can't help but smile in return.

"I had a very fun time, Walter. I mean it;  _thank you_." She doesn't mean the movie, I know this.

"Likewise, Miss Victoria."

She tilts her head at me and quirks her lips if I've said something funny. Is she perhaps expecting a good night kiss? No, I'm much too old to be humoring such a thing. But she surprises me when she takes a step forward; for all my reflexes and combat skills, she somehow manages to catch me by surprise. I am gathered with both her arms in an embrace; she looks much lighter than where her actual physical capabilities lie. She even manages to lift my feet off the ground.

"Oof!" I am not proud to admit that she has quite the hold. I am let go after a moment, her face dangerously close to mine. She's almost leaning on me, and I would have found comfort in her scent. She's undead, for all intents and purposes; she couldn't be any colder, but she warms me.

This time, I almost pass out because she pecks the corners of my lips, but she's already stepping away before I've even realized it. And she's giving me that same, mischievous smile from before. Like she's harboring a secret. Perhaps she is. I inhale sharply, and her smile only grows a little wider, a little bit flirtatious, even.

Her voice is low and sing-song, "Goodnight Walter," and then the door is closed in front of my face. For once in over fifty years, I am speechless. I can only hold my hand close to where her lips were and I wonder for the hundredth time if I truly am senile. Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, if I were to get more imagery like this.

Eventually, I am in my own chambers… and I can't sleep.

For some reason, I become increasingly aware of my age more as the seconds pass. I could have sworn there was a time where once,  _just once,_ I didn't have to take my time in positioning myself to sleep because of my back pain. There was a time where the dryness of my skin didn't scratch against the sheets. There was also a time where my hairline was lower, more centered and my hair was jet black rather than a dark withering gray. There was also a time where my lips didn't tremble when I felt an overwhelming wave of emotion. There was a time where I didn't even need my monocle.

But you know part of this story, don't you? You know I've detested my horrid, aging vessel. But you never truly  _understood_ it; you'll only see clearly when you live as long as I did.

And yet, somehow, the only thoughts that I am able to concentrate on are  _her_ ; images from how I saw her that evening, waist-up stark naked against the shiny reflection from the mirror. My fingers twitch and they move on their own accord at these intrusive thoughts. These are mine and mine alone. I feel shame, but I feel vindictive against myself; why am I harming myself? Have I truly reached an age where thoughts of being with such a lovely young woman is deemed taboo? But this only a front; I am more concerned with  _her_ thoughts,  _her_ feelings. I am angry at myself for allowing myself to feel this way in the first place. I groan and squirm; I haven't done this in years and it's a foreign thing.

Oh my, do you  _not_ want to hear this part? Didn't you order me to tell you  _everything?_ Heh.

I'm already hard, but the feelings in my chest near overwhelm me; guilt, anger, anxiety, and so many other things are all making their presence known in the form of a headache, but I don't let it deter me. More than anything, I am  _bitter_ ; my movements are getting harsher, and the pain is almost euphoric. I make move for the nearest pillow, using that as a target instead, as I am too tired to try to look for lotion or tissues. She doesn't need to know. The thought of keeping my masturbation a secret from her makes me writhe even more. She would deem me as disgusting; I am no better in this moment than the priest who tried to rape her in Cheddar.

If only I was forty-five years younger, I would have shown her what a real man could do. I would have courted her, enamored her, taken care of her. I would be worthy of her kindness, worthy of the hand that she tried to hold, and worthy of the affections she's been giving me. The images running through my mind are more vivid, more real, but I let out no noise despite the sound-proof walls of my vast bedroom. I imagine in place of the pillow, it's her; Seras would be arching against me, welcoming my advances, and I would take her to heaven even if I myself couldn't reach her. I breathe out her name, and it's the memory of her hand in mine that sets me over the edge.

My piss poor venture had only taken three minutes, and already I feel exhausted. I am grateful for the pillow not actually being the real thing; I could never satisfy her as I am now. To say I am guilty or regretful wouldn't necessarily be truthful, but I do feel shame. Only boys commit such an act; lusting over some unrequited affection. I feel soiled, but it's not me I care about, it's  _her._

It's always her.

How would she feel knowing what I just did? Would she look at me in disgust? Yes, I'm sure she would. I run a hand through my hair, now loose thanks to my… activity. My blood pressure is through the roof, but I have no energy to wash or move about; my lids droop on their own accord.

The moment I do, however, I feel lips against mine. Something prevents me from opening my eyes, and I realize I must be hallucinating while paralyzed. They are cold, though soft; but that scent of hers is irrefutable. I feel hands roam the sides of my face, slowly, agonizingly; she whispers something in my ear, but I can't hear. She kisses me again, this time traveling to my throat, but I am physically incapable of saying anything

This has to be a dream; it can't be real.

But she whispers in my ear again,  _"Walter,"_ she says my name like she's coaxing something out of me. I want to give it to her, whatever she's asking for. She can take it all,  _"Walter, why didn't you just tell me?"_ She continues kissing me, and the most I can do is moan just ever so from the throat. I'm too old for this madness; this needs to  _stop._ She does not, and the more she presses herself against me, the more of my sanity I leave behind. She is my  _Delilah_ , and I can't help but succumb.

After that, it all fades into blackness. When I wake in the morning, her scent is all over me, all over my sheets and all over my chambers. My heart is thundering angrily, and I wonder if I have died. Eventually, I rise again. I tell myself that last night was nothing more than a momentary lapse of sanity, a preview of dementia. Something.  _Anything_ else, at all.

That is, until I run into her in the hallway. She gives me that same deviant smile and I am rooted to the spot, "Hello Walter; did you have a good night's rest?"

And so, I make a decision.


End file.
